Your friends often say
my poems to-and-about
you lack color. Well,

life lacks color with-
out you. Which is why today
I’m wearing red sneak-

ers. They look like you,
as we used to say. On me
they make people laugh.


Something in our way
of speaking blocks our way of
being. We want proof

that we know the way.
Call it geometry, call
it logic, call it

what you will. It fails
the test of time. Our wills fail
the test of time. We

may as well give up
on saying what none can say
outside the poem.


Was it your darkest
night or one of those mornings,
your window glowing,

birds chirping, you chose
death over the horror and
stopped eating? I just

read the good philo-
sopher, how your choice and my
horror at it af-

firm the ‘simple, el-
emental good’ of being.
You knew the horror.

The scrambled eggs I
made for you grew cold on the
tray. You closed your eyes.


I face the mirror,
turn sideways, and it’s true: these
new jeans are too big,

my shriveled buttocks
leave much to be desired, e-
ven to you, dearest

Narcissist! Oh well.
Let’s return to the rest, to
all the other old

farts, pensioners, and
embrace, with our aches and pains,
our wrinkled faces.


It’s suddenly Spring.
In the shadow of houses
daffodils strain un-

der the weight of dew.
I couldn’t sleep anyway,
waiting for sunup.

If the old poets
knew anything, it was this
immanence of joy,

this lack of propor-
tion between frail finite things
and God’s hyperbole.


The words ‘empty arms’
suggest how I see myself
from time to time out

of the corner of
my mind. I may be washing
the dishes, putting

a book down, my arms
ache to hold you. I complete
the task seamlessly

on the one hand. On
the other I stumble in-
to grief’s dark abyss.

I’m sorry, you say,
things were simpler back when we
took love for granted.