After his deep illness
was over he laid
his body on hers—
the length of his body on hers—
all the sleepings, awakenings,
fights, teacup and coffee mornings,
their talks about everything and nothing,
the plummets, the joyous-awkward silences—

and with a tear, she beared his weight—
until it was gone.

This old house painted in faded  pride
knows me well.  I did not learn to walk here,
but I did learn to leap- and do it mightily.

The old dishes have been broken or thrown away,
replaced by new ones with new owners. The taps
stiff with old age and rust, surely have been replaced.

The comfortable chairs, the linoleum, the tile,
the **** rugs, the step up altar where my
mother was married, are probably leveled flat.

I can only see your outside and imagine your
many renovations in the sawdust of time,  
atticless, cribless,  old beds churning  to new beds.

While I lived there, you were a good soul
who kindly accepted all bidding, and I can see, donated your good bones to other’s  futures.

Other places I have lived have been less generous, tumbling into disarray, illness,  nature’s destruction before I could even build a future in them.  

I can feel the ill winds blow and know that this new abode will be more of the same, filled with unfated things never settling down into their rightful places.

I thank you, dear old thing, for your graceful love.

The pain is gone and
I am ready to write about
everything beyond the fear,

ready to bite into the
muscle and bone
of the world,

to put away the dagger phrase,
all the losses of my life,
ready to live in hope’s recesses.

I am poet enough to
make you taste
this hidden fruit,

see beyond all
the sutured sunsets
of existence.

It will not be all
kisses and music, but  
it will be terribly beautiful!

The birds sing of hunger
through the pillars of lights  
that render the sky into being

the great crease of  You stumbling
through onto my bedclothes
kindling the room once more

with the face of peace found-out
satiating my starvation with
the lamb’s diminutive thorn

a whole world
waiting for Your
                     Yes

My wife hears the **** man outside spraying  the lawn.
The next day it’s the pest control guy doing the foundation.

He doesn’t come into the house to spray each room anymore.  Just doing the outside is enough to keep the bugs away,
says the pamphlet he leaves at the top of the steps.

My wife comes from the grocery store
and  immediately complains about the smell.

She gives me the long receipt for the thirteen bags
of freshly ground and harvested death
that will feeds us for the next few weeks.

I look it over, go into my office, shut the door.
I file it away. Next, I pay the quarterly bills for
                  those who do my killing.

I hate mowing the lawn,
hate the way it sends chinch bugs
flying to the stars after the rain.

In my dreams, however,  I have lots of land,
and delight in sculpting neat parallel rows
with my tractor- over and over, on and on,

aerating the start of warrens and burrows
for rabbits and woodchucks to finish their
tunnels, for deer to graze my flowers, weeds.

In the morning the milkweed blossoms,
bringing supping butterflies. At night,
the fireflies rise painting the darkness.

When the grass grows high and it’s time
to mow again, I will close my  eyes,
and feel the biting bugs and buzzing flies

mating dreamscapes in the coming dusk.

The Hudson sleeps
and the clouds sweep
over the moon.

I promise little dear
with this small  tear
I will always love you.

Sleep, sleep, sleep
peace, peace, peace
the promise I grant you.

This song is the fact
that your star remains intact
in my heart, steady and true.

The river’s lull,
the moons’s full glow
will always pull us through.

The path will be rough.
The road back tough.
Yet, my cloak will  surround you.

Startle not, this wet drop,
is but my love pulled tight and true,
My love pulled tight and true.

Around me, within me,
within you, around you
sings the song of just us two.

The song I sing
is but the sad  tune of this night.
It will not be the story of you!

My life has been rapture,
rupture and strife
like all others in life.  

But you shall be more than my sorrow,
more than my wants,
more than my sad thoughts.  

You will be the moon song.
The one that everyone sings
to overcome the night!

It’s just a matter of just time,
of just time, just  time,
time, time, time…
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