A Seasonal Country

Gleaming through the chaotic grey, the geese again,

but air, this day, so thick

with fog they lift, they rise,

And then are gone like a mist-chance.

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In Stitches

Driving home with the dad of my two youngest – my mom and one of them in the back seat – I recalled and recounted the moments just before my surgery earlier in the day. As they wheeled me into the OR, with the morphine drip started, I peered keenly, one after another, into the faces that surrounded me. One particularly beautiful face made me feel calm and happy, and I told this nurse, “I love you.” Laughter jolted me away from that face and toward another, and another – “I love you all.”

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Logical Conclusion

The logical conclusion
of your first dark look
follows a classical line
of argument
from guarded greetings
and breathless sudden sightings
to the inevitable
and impermeable
privacy of embrace
[that cannot both be
and not be:
reductio ad absurdum].

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Hearths and Homes

However long ago, however dim the memory, there is no stretch of elastic time that cannot snap back to what will always be, for once having been. No anger, no flaw, no fear or wish on anyone’s part can annul, or supplant, or diminish a first deep love, a first winter – however cold and frightening, at times – or a firstborn.

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Winter Midnight

What moves at midnight

is the lateral indecision of stars

which yet strike straight.

Their vacillation a peculiar refringency:

A bending of light, through the singular elasticity

of night, into waves that shore

on the sonic nerve.

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