The Glass Parrot
I have never understood the way stars burst
apart. I am deaf to wind and trees,
to the rose bush we planted, to the tomato plants
lying down with their fruits this August.
I almost understand — how St.Thomas More
became a fanatic and a torturer, and why young men
with hope and without it think a bomb is an answer.
I almost understand the day I was at your bedside
holding your child-sized hand. Tight in your other hand
the glass parrot. No — I made that up for the first poem
about your death.
There was no glass parrot. I did not
hold your hand. I stared at the cancer-filled mound
of your stomach, at your cheekbones that stood out
like wings, at your hand, really child-sized.
No, I don’t understand.
* * * * *
Elegy in Susan’s Garden
A few dragonflies hovered. I looked hard
to see their four wings: the species is dying out.
You and I settled into the cool Vermont nights.
Pears earned their yellow spots, a fledgling
fell down and then up.
We listenend for the abbondanza of August,
for the green sprouts that grew under bushes.
To ripen is to turn over in the mind.
Under us, worms curled in moist soil
and the earth turned quick as a closing door.
Next summer or some day, we might still
see a dragonfly float in the sharpness of daylight,
and brightness flounder above us.