Stomach, down.
Globular compression
between 250-count percale
and unyielding rib.
Chin over pillow
in the dark,
blue lines on white sheets,
pointing, headboard to footboard.
Arms outstretched, encircled,
You, a half-sleeping reach
to draw breath scented
of my shampoo.
In the nearsighted world
between undress and sleep
I can only wonder
at your previous life's price
which purchased a rebirth
as the most spoiled creature
in my household.


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Bastille Day

At last…a draft that might be worth printing out.'Bastille Day'

Maybe this will be the day it will coalesce—
you, me, the empty bottle of chardonnay,
the driving urge to put this breach to rest.
(Another attempt to put the past away.)

I won't lie to you—or, at least, not today,
when you're so determined to be on your best
behavior, to mend a relationship so far astray.
Once more, this night, at your behest

I'll don the satins and silks of recreational
adoration. It's my duty to make things right.
Your body may be my confessional,

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(we are waiting for spring)

I am looking for a new beginning -
yours—and mine—and ours -
in the midst of this mud.
Sky: still raining, as it has for hours.

We are waiting for spring,
for light, a signal to grow.

It lies, massing, under these bricks,
and compost, and newly-nodding shoots
I planted just yesterday:
sharply pruned. Just sticks—and roots.

We are waiting for spring,
for light, a signal to grow.

Stand porchside, dry. Lean out. Bare toes
shiver-wiggling against damp concrete,
hair spattering with runoff
as it flows from roof to street.

We are waiting for spring,

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The garden.

Four common sages;
red, sodden earth—
a herald of rebirth.

Two of rosemary, six of thyme.
Marjoram one, basil nine.

Dig deep, plant yourself in
for strong roots. Let spring begin.
Step carefully to the stepping-stone,
for where your feet currently oppose
is the place the oregano goes.

Lavender holds the border
against thistles and clover.

Point your toes down and grow tall,
tall to the clouded spring sky. This wall
of scented talismans is your breath, your back,
your armor, your proof of power
against springtime showers.

Your measure of relief

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David Wagoner's "Lost"

So I spend too long on that entry, far longer than I should have, and then I look at the timestamp with horror and realize that I'm probably going to be a couple of minutes late for work. No big deal—I'm usually early.

But because I was late, I actually got to hear Garrison Keillor reading poetry on The Writer's Almanac on WLRH. I liked this morning's selection—and if I hadn't been running a few minutes late, I wouldn't have heard it at all:

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The quirks of memory

Some of you might remember that, long ago and far away, I was a literature major once. Despite the fact that it seems altogether a different world, my love of the written word remains.

I may not have a favorite actor or actress, but I do have a favorite poem. It's not terribly well-known, unless you're familiar with twentieth-century American poets, but it's a piece that I have loved since I first read it. I know virtually nothing about the author, and have read nothing else of his. Sometimes I wonder if they live up to the high standard he set here:

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