Mark Doty Poems
|3.||Brian Age Seven||9/4/2011|
|4.||Heaven For Stanley||12/8/2014|
|6.||To Bessie Drennan||1/3/2003|
|12.||A Green Crab's Shell||1/20/2003|
|14.||At The Gym||1/20/2003|
|15.||Long Point Light||1/3/2003|
|17.||A Display Of Mackerel||1/13/2003|
|18.||The Ancient World||1/3/2003|
You weren't well or really ill yet either;
just a little tired, your handsomeness
tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought
to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace.
I didn't for a moment doubt you were dead.
I knew that to be true still, even in the dream.
You'd been out--at work maybe?--
having a good day, almost energetic.
We seemed to be moving from some old house
where we'd lived, boxes everywhere, things
in disarray: that was the story of my dream,
but even asleep I was shocked out of the narrative
by your face, the physical fact of ...
at century's end,
compounded metallic lusters
to natural sheens (dragonfly
and beetle wings,
marbled light on kerosene)