He walks past the bedroom door and peers into the shadowy room to see his lover naked, lost and adrift in her reflection…
praeteritum est praesens
The scars of a lifetime describethe essence of whom we have been.
The lady who sits across the aisle from me,On the B train heading to Brooklyn is losing her hair.
How suddenly strange to be seventy.
I’m not sure when my dog retired.
Ash blowsfrom an unused forge, flakesof a forgotten era of intention.
Something is happening to the tree on the road to my father’s house,