Wednesday, December 30, 2015

As if almost

Clear and cold. I peeled and cut an onion yesterday,
and, despite all the washing, my fingers still smell.

A bird, through the window, wishes me well.

Her eye, sent by heaven, from heaven,
through heaven, arrives in heaven, all to be still.

A frozen field, where once were walls.

Loveliness, astonishment,
the everyday business of ghosts.

A stray thread on a coat.

An unexplained feeling of hope.

A boundless sea, in need of my very small boat.

And everything else a grave never holds.

As if, almost, the bird says, Oh!

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