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| Mid-winter in Upper Turkeyfoot |
Oh God the failure of prayers in the idiot days
—Siri Hustvedt
1.
A live-in love.
Nothing physical.
A suitable arrangement.
I made that up. I live alone.
No one in my bed but me,
And you, once upon a time.
You can say I made that up, too.
Could be, poetic license being what it is,
Tie-dyeing my oeuvre,
Three decades of songs,
Each with its image,Mostly hills, mostly trees, mostly skies,
And you. My way of seeing,
Largely unseen,
Cherishing memory.
Let someone else be judge,
Long after. Then let it be said,He never forgot, and tenderly.
2.
In the mind there is no chronology,
Impressions of a life, not as a stream,
but compartments disordered,
existence a pastiche, a jumbled
amalgam of blended sensations,
the vivid colors of movement and act
faded to weak pastels,
profered piecemeal
as art.
