New poems, unpublished or possibly written for radio, will appear here from time to time. It’s possible other work will show up as well.

renovations, no

no renovations, I prefer shabby rooms,
the leaky sill and damaged door, appearances
most of all, presences, the absences
that have never left though they exist, a hair
floating beneath a hassock in the corner,
a muddy print cleaned long ago, but me
remembering it, and that too won’t be renovated,
my memory, that grizzled novelist, will never
complete his one life’s work even as it slips
into another life, another story, more of the same,
the house leaning over like a weather-worn barn,
cement steps chipped and a damp newspaper splashed
against the foundation, there will be no renovations,
no new nails, no golden hinges, there will be no paint,
only bent things, broken bulbs, only the smell of living
will continue, only the stain on my sunday shirt.


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