Somewhere in the course of a day, I try to find ledges on which to rest. Yesterday, I brought out bookbinding tools and a box of ephemera— things that caught my eye or were part of something else once important, but it was the seemingly inconsequential thing I wanted to save. The lettering on the side of a pasta box, a piece of vellum from an envelope; a rivet case with a pull-out tab like a drawer. I wish I could call my daughter in what people used to call the old country. Or rather, I wish she would answer my calls. But here it is, another year-end approaching. We are all no longer young. I have troubling dreams where we lie down on a road stretching from the front yard into the dark blue distance. Who are all these people crowded together, their shoulders touching, waiting for some kind of sign?
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
