April 11, 2018

once she gardened to Pachelbel’s Canon

now on her deathbed, dignity drained

her teeth are like stones, eroded by nature

sand fills her throat when she speaks

and she no longer hears the voice of time

ravaging her cochlea, her dreams

she recalls the symphony orchestra

elevated...

March 4, 2017

I bought a book of Wordsworth

that one hundred and thirty years ago
was given as a gift on Christmas Day
which I am told was a sultry Wednesday
by the man on my computer screen
and the inscription reads Dear Violet
but says nothing further, as if the words
of Wordsworth...

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