There is tragedy in his eyes
his soul lays barren there
one of three in our family
a not so wild pack of hounds
loud and obstreperous.
He will live until he dies.

As will I.

And in those northern woods
where winter quietly closed in
and the stars swarmed
I saw her eyes,
and in them maps of the world
in its primal becoming.

The sea is resting now
after a long day
gnawing at the edge
churning in deep hollows
ever so slowly eroding
this peaceful coast

Sand is the issue
of this marriage
sea and sky
combining to
make the land large
in its retreat

A handful of sand
to the winds
my life
to these tides

The sound of loneliness
is the crinkling
of the plastic bag
into which you put your clothes;
you no longer have a drawer in my world.

The look of freedom
is you pulling out of my driveway,
forever.
I long for you to stare back at me
for my eyes are screaming all the things
that I was unable to say to you.

But you gaze straight ahead.
The turnoff for 89 south is nearing,
towards: Boston, Manchester, and Nazareth.