A Repeating Dream I’m Belly-Down at Eleven
beneath barbwire like bedsprings during night-climbs
Sweet hyssop and the sweltering hives
from which sail bees, their resolute flight
into July, into my garden.
He went out. Into the ocean’s black maw. To save. To rescue. Didn’t, as they say, come back. Death is funny like that, precise, dissolute.
When his mind grew empty
and his heartbeat slowed to a vague stutter,
our father no longer walked the fields at night.
Swirling, confident, those sax notes stretch and blow
above the drums, full of his blue notes,
fifty years ago, new as now.
Tonight I walk through spring sadness, the nostalgia of dreams remembered and foregone, familiar places where we wrote our own epitaph, misspoken lines and rooms seen in the wrong light … Continue reading
Michael Castro 1945 – 2018 while the snow wants to melt winter loiters and I will listen I will listen for you when I need a noun a sudden muscle an animal can use to … Continue reading
Where I grew up, wakes were a sparring ground— furor was the only defense to grief. Someone had to fight the rant of all those flowers. That is how … Continue reading
words were spoken, and underneath as though from distant ancestors the wail of yellow carnations impaled by long white pins on styrofoam hearts the rustling of roses an octave … Continue reading
Every face has its stories of travel along the coast or mountains, memories of loved ones cherished or left behind the rooms of beauty acquiring their peonies or cobwebs … Continue reading
for David Falk take fireflies for example when you were a kid you caught them in a bottle and let them flicker themselves to death in your bedroom fifty years … Continue reading