Three days ago it mattered.
We wondered how many
crows gather on the church’s crenellation; how seldom
words contain the vowel formation oeu;
how gradually to stir uncooked risotto into the boiling water.
Who cares now?
By what audacity does decanted wine breathe,
or, linen covered pillows rest fluffily and unaffected?
We hear distance winds loudly agitate the water’s surface,
witness gray squirrels restlessly
dash through our gardens. Each of our feet plods
over and over after the other
in the emptiness
of dusk. But there seems no reason for it.
It simply continues to happen.
*Thomas Barton 1977-2019
Boy: My mom gets off after we stop at the bridge. Do you see my mom on the way to work every day?
Me: Not every day, but sometimes.
Boy: My dad is bigger than my Mom.
Me: Why do you think that is?
Boy: Well, my mom is big, but my dad is bigger. (Pauses, shuffles feet and moves fingers to some song no one else can hear.) My dad doesn’t wear pajamas.
against windows; trees
murmur your names.
(originally written 24 October 1987″
steadiness of hands
Rising or setting,
the low sun burnishes gold
on all our houses.
After we were married
it started to rain.
We drove home.
He bought me flowers
I bought shirts he never wore
and gradually he got away
from ever wearing
me. I live with his dreams.
I watch light from the hall
caress his back
while the storm at the window
makes love to the glass.