Graham Duncan Poems

about how they open and close,
but sometimes are hard to open
again, or, once open, to close,
at least tightly; how some walls
...

I am the wraith.
For a moment I belong
to the woman behind me,
tall, slim, erect,
...

Every tree is an ancestor tree,
not just grandfather redwoods.
Every sapling, every sprout,
carries that majesty,
...

The world, we now hear,
is all bits and pieces
that somehow cohere
(or only appear to),
...