Time Is Distance
First a table left, then another.
Then men came
And took away one thing, then
Another. Not
That we liked those things,
They were ugly
And cheap and we bought them
When we were poor
And it is now so easy to let them
Go not because we are
Rich but because we have no
Heart for what we no
longer desire. In the evening I
Sorted paper, found
Things I’d written long ago,
They’d gotten damp
Somehow, and other pages
Stuck together, so I
Pried them apart and found
Parts of my life I’d
Forgotten about, men who
Wrote me serious
Letters that I didn’t understand
At the time.
And now I still am not sure
Why things happened
As they did or why they are
The way they are now.
You are upstairs and you don’t
Know about this life
That I lived and how could you.
* * * * *
Confession
in memory of Robert Creeley
where newly fallen, the snow is white, undisturbed
and by the edge of the highway black snow veers away
I saw the pocked snow and thought it breathing
the breath of small animals alive beneath the earth
and every breath was exhale, sighs of relief
that something cold was melting
as it melts in me, sometimes, when I am able to forgive
all that is trouble and shame in me, my scarred body
most of all and would weep easily
and in a moment, if only
I could let myself be like rain,
if I could only be decent enough, and happy.