Lawrence Beck Poems
A Late Fall Day
My past is here, a heap of shards, and, on
A day like this, so gray and cold and
Claustrophobic, I can sit and sort through
Them. I find a walk to second grade
In sloppy snow. The streets are black,
And little rivers run along their sides.
I see my feet in them. A sunny day
Sometime in summer, laying on a
Towel on a rock above a frigid
Stream. I shiver, freshly out of it.
My father's on the other bank. My
Sister's in an inner tube. My guinea
Pig is dead. The neighbor's dog
Came in and killed it in my room.
My own dog at my side, I slip ...
Living Inside The Box
I will go back to living the life of the mind,
The mind that is dying, not so much from
Age as from loss of feeling, isolation.
You may say my art has changed for
The better. It's what it had been before
She arrived: sterile and cold to the touch,
Really, dead, an item produced in a
Sealed off facility, textured to make it
Seem gathered outside, where the mind