The crows were so loud this morning that I woke up laughing.
Two books of poetry came in the mail yesterday,
Space in Chains by Laura Kasischke and
Collected Poems by Jack Gilbert. I say they came in the mail as if I had nothing to do with it, as if they had arrived, winged, and sit, patiently waiting their turn.
Rub my back, he said, out of sleep, and I did thinking a good start might thwart the inevitable drama of his imagination.
Life is hard for Oliver, fraught with obstacles. For Henry, it's a coast. I have nothing to do with either.
If I could, I'd gently turn Sophie's head to the left where she rarely resides, ease her into a different view. A difficult morning, and she still gets up to walk, my heart splintered, my own head like an owl's.
The planet tilts just so in September, the Lone Ranger calls the new, old light from the east at 7:08 am.
