A stillness which is very nearly mineral
Keeps insisting upon the essential
Loneliness with which this light is filled.
Maybe it all started with the murder of John Lennon, or the books my mother bought me on JFK and MLK. Whatever the reason, by the time I was thirteen I was a hardened news junkie always looking for a fix.
Giuseppe, a simple shoe-maker,
who never learned English, stood
banging his head against the wall,
cursing God in his native tongue
“I still can’t bring myself to buy cucumbers. He loved them.” she says, but never mentions the car accident, or how she had blamed me for your drinking again…
You hardly touched your food.
Down to fifty-eight pounds
at your last check-up.
Yet, your hair was still beautiful…
In the distance a train cries
like a whippoorwill,
and a child, in his bed,
sick with fever, wakens
from dreams of far off places.