suffer, such a small word
only two syllables, six letters
as large as a world

polishing the varnish
of just finished wooden floor
steel wool gathering

John Berryman is dead
all his invitations, rescinded
unlikely as it seems, Pound has not been uncaged
and Pisa remains uncovered by the summer's sky

John Berryman is dead
his cantos have, indeed shaken my courage
expressions have been lifted
and letters signed and delivered

John Berryman is dead
it seems he did not die at too slow a rate, after all
the Washington Avenue Bridge spoke too quickly
and too loud, whispered in his father's voice

John Berryman is dead
released all his demons and avoided all his devils
grieve for this stranger, made friendly and strange
the bells sing too late

John Berryman is dead
bones go all the same all the same
accept our envy O winner of praise
sing your dreams dead poet

morning spent watering
fall blooming flowers in pots
the bees are still busy!

Uncharted beauty
dimmed night time sky line
chaos among the stars

After all this time, the rain has come again
soybeans bursting in the pod, dry brown fields.
The lake as low as it has ever been
clouds pass, thin wisps, withholding all they wield.

We too have dried, mere husks, once plangent
await cadences, intimacy's desires.
A chair rests on a deck, first child's salient
artifact of family life once resonant.

Not first love, but founded in maturity
enough, perhaps, to defy time's ravages.
Embarked with proclaimed mutual surety
to weather all a life's uncertain passages.

But, for now, we tender loves rebuff
and find the rain must prove to be enough.

Hammer fall echoes
the woods have no silences
even the squirrels bury nuts