Sometimes, as I sit here writing in the dark,
I feel as if my hands belong to someone else working
just beyond the veil — a parallel realm in which objects
roam free of any given meaning, and the sound
of a passing train — I hear it now — is that
someone’s remembered childhood.
Poems, Slightly Used, February 18, 2010
. . . and now / in the street / last year’s leaf / smiles beneath / this morning’s sweet / rain . . .
February 9, 2021
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