THE SILVER HYPHENS

To my amazement, someone is dancing.

Eternal Biedermeier, the sound of windshield wipers

Lulling the car, making of the rain

A beloved shape-shift deeply, my sister’s

Charm bracelet on the wheel rhyming “Ramapo”





With “Brahms’ Alto”, the sound is stronger than hills

Yielding to facts. This is my poem,

A paean to dementia. This embraces

Dementia. The rain conceals a little,

Then is wiped away. The next exit





Toys with the undercarriage gently.

Rain makes a gorgeous pattern on the glass.

Let us begin: we are driving in the rain.

Rampant, redoubled, sister and I see

The rain so beautiful and then an empty





Windshield equally deathless, dazzling

Winter bees with a mountain on each wing.

By noon, nothing remains but romantic litter.

Biedermeier at all the outposts beats,

Whirrs, thuds. One charm upon her bracelet





Rings my eye with emerald around.

The first word of the risen Christ was “Woman”.

Did Magdalene require a further word?

Is there a forgotten country, *un pays vague,*

Behind the vexed and uxorious country





Forgotten just now? Litter of rain,

Little winter birds suggest as much. The aftermath

Of Bellerophon was olive groves. But see:

The shadows of olive trees turn instantly

To water. Waves of light, in a concourse





Of silver hyphens, drench new patterns of herbs

Near to home. Home is a southern studio.

Mother dotes upon the downing moon.

My sister drives a Biedermeier toy.

To my amazement, someone is dancing.