Dead Souls

Know this: If the wind that blows through 

The cypresses at night won’t let you sleep, 

There’s still hope for you. 

Erosion of Memory: Shall We Gather at the River?

Could this filthy thread of a rivulet be the river where 

Full-bodied village women gathered each spring 

To wash their hand-loomed rugs

Or is it just another corporate 

Fabrication run loose? 

The Ultimate Writing Workshop Poem

“. . .and suddenly everything became clear to him.” 

Ok, let’s stand back a bit and look 

At this fragment of a sentence 

From a distance—it comes to us 

From a story by Chekhov; 

Raymond Carver mentions it 

In one of his essays on writing 

But does not tell us its name 

Or what it is about; it could be 

About anything, that much is clear— 

So what say we leave it at that, 

Fast forward instead and imagine 

This sentence as your epitaph. 

Remembrance

re the mourning doves 

throwing their voices 

from somewhere close 

behind me Lorine’s 

memorable you- 

ah-you calling 

your absence obliquely. 

Anonymous Papyrus Fragment, Ancient Messene, Date Unknown but Later Than You Think

Fields we had

[        ]

[        ]

[perforated]

[ now?]

[        ]

[        ]

[        ]

[shredded wheat]

Ely[sian?] with honey

[        ]

[        ]

[        ]

[        ]

Bees combing long

[        ] [flaxen?]       

Hair [       ]

[         ]

[         ]

[         ]

[down?]

To your knees      

[the rest wholly eaten away by moths]