Poetry from Web Del Sol
The Poetry of Joan Houlihan
As to the Origin
One is gone who trailed daylight, was favored
by fields, took the hot breath and gab
of August, morning and its mock owls.
As to the origin, and pith, of loss:
I have no talk, just brace for the vertebra
askew, taped clavicle, hip, pinned.
Made of distances now, I only want less
and move with the stagger of something
dying down the day's green halls.
Wanting what's left.
Originally published in Fine Madness