SUBJECT>Re: Separation POSTER>geoff EMAIL>geoffleone@hotmail.com DATE>1111262909 IP_ADDRESS>uhall-backlab-226t.fdu.edu PASSWORD>aa3znsx.4y15U PREVIOUS>84996 NEXT> 85062 IMAGE> LINKNAME> LINKURL>

Re. Separation

For Bowen

Be it proven beyond all doubt that one may construct a poem out of a mournful tone, a series of totally generic verbs and a number of adjectival phrases of violent observation.

What is not established however is what the reader possibly gets out of it? An urge to write?

Just A Sittin' and a Whittlin'

Geoff
*

: Any words, if spoken, would suggest
: we stop. But this morning we’re punched silent
: by rain. Wipers, forgotten in dry weather,
: smear
: the winter road. At the bridge we stop,

: unbuckle our lives, climb the rail.
: Below, the river makes rings of the rain
: the color of sweet tea. For a week,
: we wept under the kitchen’s yellow

: light, circled the table as if our grief would
: be worn down by walking. Each evening
: we stood here on the loose ledge
: of the earth, thought of the rushes.

: His eyes show he’s ready to step but I think
: about last things, details people forget. A car
: could
: change our minds, but at this hour we’re alone
: in the world. Out here people keep
: what distance they can.