Fall 1983 • Vol. V No. 4 Poetry |


If death wants me, let it come. I am here in a room at night on my own. The pulsing and the crickets would go on. Everything and the tall trees bathed in darkness would continue. I am here with the lights on writing my last words. If he does not come, I will still be here doing the same thing. Things change outside of me. Rain is falling fast in the quiet. My love got on a boat, and it went away. I stayed. When the moon rose, I tilted my head to the side when she did. When people came, I felt a little crazy. I did what I remembered. Made food. Asked questions and responded. And they left. I would go to sleep and wake in the sun. Love the day as if it were a host of memories. Then go in peace to the wall and wait. That hour was perhaps the finest of all. No people. No bright face. No geese walking home. No night sounds at all. I was silent with all the things around coming and leaving in abeyance on their journeying. I would sing a song for them all. This is for you and this for you.

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