Fall 1986 • Vol. VIII No. 4 Poetry |

For Ingrid Bergman

The day you died I thought of maples felledIn lonely woods—the crack and then the hushWhich quickly stills the air like words withheldIn disbelief. I caught, as well, the rushOf rain against a house where lovers lieBefore the storm and they are gentled outOf sound. Such endings go their way from sighTo silence, kept for things we feel aboutThe most, and this by irony of fameWas lost for you. I listened to the news,Drank bitter coffee, smoked, and heard your nameIn accolades that matched the best reviews—But felt such classic beauty gone gave causeOnce more for quiet louder than applause.

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The day you died I thought of maples felledIn lonely woods—the crack and then the hushWhich quickly stills the air like words withheldIn disbelief. I caught, as well, the rushOf […]

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