In Memoriam H.S.
Here? A stone
blocks the airway.
I will not name it
granite or turquoise,
sapphire or coal.
It has stopped your breath.
Your children touch it
with their fingers, weeping
for the kindness in your broken body,
as if in this late age stones
still held audience for tears.
the novel is always quantified, always counting and we feel it through that count. The poems don't even seem to be by you. They just float in and reference something else, just off camera.
If ever the twain should meet.
