Poetry
I don’t know how I did it, / loved you all those years in the quiet landscape / of a burning vineyard, of a toppling mountain…
Late June fields greening
under a mottled sky.
An oriole slashes orange
against a shingled Cape Cod.
Each time something went missing—
the photo album of my first
year, postcard from a forgotten friend…
Late June fields greening
under a mottled sky.
An oriole slashes orange
against a shingled Cape Cod.
Late June fields greening
under a mottled sky.
An oriole slashes orange
against a shingled Cape Cod.
Late June fields greening
under a mottled sky.
An oriole slashes orange
against a shingled Cape Cod.
Late June fields greening
under a mottled sky.
An oriole slashes orange
against a shingled Cape Cod.
1
The smell is like nothing else.
Sickeningly sweet and kind of smoky,
like something burning and rotting at the same time,
it filled my father’s hospital room
and stuck to our clothes and nostrils
long after he died.
1
The smell is like nothing else.
Sickeningly sweet and kind of smoky,
like something burning and rotting at the same time,
it filled my father’s hospital room
and stuck to our clothes and nostrils
long after he died.