The Crane
When the morning comes
I will desert you
Like the crane flies off
From the marsh

With his almost languorous wings

Leaving eddies of water behind
That you think are indelible
When you see them appear
But you quickly forget them

Just as you will forget the crane.
 
I Remember You Now
I remember you now
as the treasure I could not find
after reading all the maps,
following all the clues
and even digging to China
where I found the X on the ground
that I believed marked the spot.

I remember you now
as the mermaid on the rocks
who would have called me to crash
if I had ever dared to set sail.
I was resigned to hear your call
while standing on a calm and tepid shore,
doomed in shiplessness to live my ignoble life
instead of dying a fairytale death.

I remember you now
when the violins play
and you are not beside me to share the sounds;
when the light creeps in on me
alone in my bed
after a night of thoughts
of evasive you
as I try in vain to evade you.

I remember you now
but I no longer wait for you to come:
I’ve turned off the porchlight;
I’ve turned the bolt in the door.
The meal I prepared, long gone cold
at the table,
waiting for flies.

I remember you now
as the line drive
that went whizzing by my glove
and made it over the left field fence.

I remember you now
as the mouse that would not be caught;
as the cat that would not chase.

A broom goes about my rooms,
gathering the bits of you
I’ve allowed to collect in my corners
like cobwebs.
Each night I find new webs,
all holding more bits you.

I remember you now
as the curtain closes;
as the river dries up;
as the moon is slain;
as the sun cracks into
a billion yellow flames
and falls to the earth.

I remember you now
as I look at me and
as I look at the sky falling
as the earth returns to dust.

Long Old Scar
I have this long old scar
Along the length of my skull
Maybe four inches long

And once a year or so
It itches so much
Under all my hair

After I’ve taken a shower.
Usually it’s a winter night
And I get to scratching it.

I got this long old scar
When I was fifteen year old
And I almost bled to death.

Anyway I scratch this scar
About once a year
And the little flakes of skin fall down

And they cover the front
Of my always-black shirt
With all these white dots.

Anyway I scratch until
I lift a scab and don’t stop until
The blood gets under my nails

This gelatinous blood
More black than red
But for some reason this year

I stopped scratching
Before I got to the point of bleeding
And I sit here now

With all these white specks
On my always-black shirt
And I wonder if

I’ve lost strength with age
Or if my long old scar
Has finally gone to healing

And of course
There’s no way
To really know

But it is nice
To go to bed
Without having to scrub

Blood as thick as gelatin
From under my fingernails
And out of my hair

While the wind cries outside
For another night and
I get into bed and wait.