|Two nights before he told me he was climbing
a willow, and I am sure he was
somewhere in the curves of his mind
where nothing yelled anymore, and a creek
wound around an uneven landscape
but never emptied anywhere.
I prayed there was a fond applause in his head
for what struck him, a sun or mother’s hands.
The day before, he recognized Cary Grant
in an old black & white; he pointed before sinking
back into his pillows like a piece of worn upholstery,
re-covered over and over and over again.
Last edited on Mon Apr 30th, 2018 04:27 am by timmy