A Hard Rain in Hartford
He’s come to the beginning of the end
Of the poem, the moment when he turns
To place the first of its words on paper.
He’s come to the beginning of the end
Of the poem, the moment when he turns
To place the first of its words on paper.
Never was there a time when I did not lead him,
when I did not feel his hand upon my shoulder.
Never was there a time I was not his eyes
It’s not enough to talk to plants
you also have to listen. And day after day
it’s the same petty complaints and trivial gossip:
One morning I awoke
to a dead pigeon on the roof
of the building next to mine,