Tuesday Morning Poem



Imagine the crawl from sight to sightlessness.
Even in dreams you wear bifocals.

Imagine not knowing your grandson’s name, or being
lost in a word-salad thicket of sinister trees.

Imagine lying on your death bed, palms cupped
in a mudra of surrender. And among dementia,

going blind, and dying, you pray death will come first.
This is how you curl into your solace, bidding its shell

to your mollusk, storm of sea blowing in your ear,
inexpressible pain expressed sotto voce.


From slight faith, forthcoming in May from Moonpath Press.


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