Wednesday, October 22, 2014


How can it be?—that now
the scree 
and the bold rubble

that your tough and immodest-
ly dead 
grandmother ever was 

to you—
an off-limits series

of dark carpeted 
stiff rooms—plastic and overloaded
with huge oak 
bowls of odd-

numbered and fluke-
shaped white- 
striped penny candies—the vague hazel 
stubborn reek of an indiscreet

liquor cabinet—littered always
with portraits,
with glossy poker chips, with that chipped amber 
bust of Franz Liszt—the smell 

of which was compounded
no less often—by the impressions
of about a hundred million 
stuckon gummy savory

ghosts of some
much older country—fanning out from within 
the dank and cramped 
olive oil kitchen;

how can it be—that now 
of these ponderous things

rise to your mind—so weightless-
ly quick and easily?
you so much as—glance down

at the dumb
blue vein now jutting 

out from your own 
rather stubborn—and
increasingly leathery hand.