Elegy

 



 



Morning expands one rib at a time

speaks through the pinktops of pines        On the porch

I write to a friend whose mother has passed

Blue fog is a doe that startles

at my cough        I drink black water from its eye





This isn't about half-dreamt things

The veil over the lake about to boil a man

It's too quiet to answer anything but the tongue-colors

of the east        fern-light slices from a mandoline





My words are bad acreage

I think of taking my friend’s grief     for him holding it

above my head & wading out     It is clear I can see the sand

I tell myself this is helping    this is what the heart looks like working





Each step     the outbreath

There is a boat & a man moving his line

He’s throwing longer & longer threads

to the still dark