you caught her
perturbed on your river rock
smelling of Sobranie tobacco and salt
I still have a red square
of your flannel fishing vest
your pipe collection
went to firstborn son
his Tudor bride blooms
roses—silver shot with gold
but we both know, you and I,
that green is the eternal pink
icons are born; they blossom
then die.
Life
is a fish, hooked and misbegotten.
No comments:
Post a Comment