I never could have thought my keyboard transforms so naturally into a grand piano every time I write. The prelude, the exposition, the recapitulation: it's my mind that creates; the fingers execute.
(for Jane Kenyon)
the cyclone
took your home and your wits
last monsoon but
that’s not true –
you were orphaned after that
when she deserted you
on the grounds overlooking
the avenue of eucalypti, tall,
spindly against the sky,
where you first touched
her lips with yours
and felt their tenderness…
I follow you often
to your hearth that glows
with butt-ends of cigarettes,
the potato peels you dump in there
every evening, and
the writing paper
turned to balls of crepe…
she said she loved you
or didn’t she?
but you did and that’s all
that matters now when the only
sign of her is your face,
her wardrobe,
her scented handkerchief
(it was scented), and
that half-drunk tea-cup
on the dining table