The poems of air are slowly dying; too light for the page, too faint, too far away, the ones we’ve called The Moon, The Stars, The Sun, sink into the sea or slide behind the cooling trees at the field’s edge. The grave of light is...
My friend has not called. I send her poems. She says she likes them, though they tell too much about farm life, too little about me. When I visit her in the summer, she says she hates her job, she’d like for me to live closer, that she’s afraid...
The loss you can’t remember. Crumbling walls, the mind’s stupor. The haze at the horizon, the loss indistinct, the stammered words repeating themselves. You can’t remember.
