Last night I cried myself to sleep again; I surrendered to the impossible helplessness of having no good answers for the problems of the world. No, not the world—but not even my own. I don't know what the wind is threading through the reeds, or what the river might be thinking about territory, about what lasts. Across the stump of an old oak hewn down five years ago, a screen of holly and ivy has begun to emerge. Nothing is intimate or everything is intimate and we are all climbing a trellis thin as spider silk, more opaque than ordinary light.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
