Poetry

My octogenarian
awakens

That hazy, faintly discernible glow,
already half erased,
lodged in the corners of the night 

You smiled, slumped in your chair.
I was reclining. We talked but
not much was said. It was the day

Once again the land was alone
with me. The hills were humped and low.

If only they wouldn’t leave us so alone.
At the fair, and farther out, in the arcades,
in arcadia—