a woman, herself a broken blue clapboard,
carved fishbones on my house.
the more i look at them,
scratches on the brick shoulder,
i see the impoverished elders
bent life right in thousands
of my favorite poems. one window cracked
but i believe it, the night i love,
grey a quarter cut of darkness.
the woman who lives in
every remembrance of maine winters
which have worn a burden in her center.
there is despair, hope; where
is there a cover? most places, so rolling
and remote. where is the safe place
to touch each others’ beauty?
she occupies both of my hands.
the brightest light does not dim.
i will soon be headed for a mission
forgotten; poorness breeds creative
solutions. most places, so rolling and
remote, but everywhere she touches.
her words now are mosquitoes calling.
that will be my legacy too.