True Keeps Calm Biding Its Story Book

one

pale fingers . . .

sky speaks . . .

my pleasures inventoried . . .

the hill 's grasses . . .

a breeze . . .

walked barefoot . . .



two

I was dragging a ladder . . .

only gray rocks with drifting mist . . .

basin of hills . . .

the chainlink . . .

like water spiders . . .

any object inclines away . . .



three

with practice . . .

just lean against the wallpaper . . .

nearness is . . .

the vertebrae achieved . . .

my stammering mind . . .

shaded but not rested . . .



four

just long enough . . .

here again is the counting of linoleum . . .

breadcrumbs . . .

a pleasure to rub . . .

my new skin . . .

I saw the window . . .



 

five

I might travel his death . . .

my father 's dying makes stairs . . .

there are no words . . .

here I place . . .

there are thoughts . . .

sieved the stillness . . .



six

the driver wasn t . . .

a gnat . . .

I add brush-strokes . . .

though my first foray . . .

it was once believed . . .

the sun setting . . .



seven

an aimlessness . . .

attempting again proximity . . .

there was no moment . . .

silently my father 's dying . . .

wind is . . .

the petals of poppies . . .



eight

sullenly disposed . . .

the coat-rack 's narrow . . .

tasted a weedy . . .

the rustle of a Sunday bundle . . .

fill a page . . .

to set thetable as if . . .





nine

I throw a stone into air . . .

not simply to lie on grass . . .

elaborately frilled edge . . .

how to hold what remains . . .

for months after his death . . .

today a ringing-in-the-ears . . .