The warm city. An old friend. Some spirits are roomy and
welcoming. Buildings barely swaying in their emptiness. Foreign
people on the street. I cannot understand them. The desire
for words, identities. A sprawling system of urban parks.
Children rolling. My heart fills with those wanted words. Warmth
like a summery holiday afternoon. The simple closing
of eyes, and then following, sleep.
Going away again. Coming back like oneself. Your still legs
that once spoke for you. Your new shallow breath coming back.
A legacy of correct observations. The painterly landscape,
the oily, well-lit distance. Some may stay in sandy retreats. You
come back restful, move slowly, see the swaying of the bridges
as you do. You and your last dog looking back at each other
in silent understanding.
Repairs I remember. Frail screen doors. The need for attention.
A female piping plover, fenced off with her eggs in her nest
in the sand. The opposite of attention. Some windows stick
in obstinate silence. The death rattle of houses. What weather
there is sinks in. The sound of water penetrating dreams. Cars
on gravel. Your desire to cook. Your wall of old paintings.
The front and back of the house change places.
When walls were painted red. When the phrenology bust
first stood bodiless in the dining room. When award statues
hid in the hallway. When the small yard was quiet. When
the streets were made wider. When nurses arrived in the elevator.
When the wine came up. When we first met. When the other
rooms were empty. When you read these words. When
one finds a poem, a new door, a coda ending.