Conversations (IV) — to Dylan Thomas
It’s because I love my love can’t be cut
Like a river by rocks, bent branches swift
Over stone misshapen or promises broken
On swerve. Because I love I love this soul alone
And am given immunity against the foamy drift,
And the heart’s wheel’s rims to resist the rut,
The charter to tax all the pennies of loss,
The unplanted ghost come off the cross.
You can send me fractions.
The shattered pagoda of memory blasts
Back into place and the splinters
Spiral into a soft round kiss.
We’re half shade and half sun
And never fully half, holding
A hymn hands can’t tear
To pieces, or sing solely.
Conversations (II – to a headache)
You promise you will never leave me.
All day I have been trying to locate grief
And all day you have been trying to convince me
Grief and pain are the same.
If grief leaves me I will know
I have lost something vital to happiness.
So keep your promise and leave
The one I love. I’ll keep you here on call
Like a substitute teacher outside
An empty room you’ll never see.
I have to learn quiet again,
I told the yellow grass
By the library’s stone wall.
The sun shimmered,
Not understanding. November
Shrugged and disrobed.
Leaves left on the trees on a sub-freezing late November evening
Eyes closed against the wind, holding a deep breath
Until it warms, I still hear the midsummer breeze
Third Saturday in November
The temperature dropped thirty degrees
Between cups of coffee.
I dreamed my daughters were snowboarding away
Into the future. Then I was made of snow
And they had made me.
The pen you
Gave ran out
Of ink and I
ran out of words