Even two years later, she still gets correspondence
addressed to him. Correspondence. This like that.
The one on the ground lofts two at a time
with just the right lift for them to finish
their rise as the one on the scaffold turns
Here were said the words men say.
The oil stove winked its slit black eye;
it knew they did not have their way.
Small-town AM station,
still doing a gospel number every hour.
Two days into the flood
they appear, moored against
a roof eave or bobbing caught
has given him a shirt
with his name on it.
Such is the way
The Happy Handyman's van
has just come down my street.
Ghost moon in the upper right-hand corner
where we used to write our names—
Is it quiet there, Tom,
adrift from your drift of ashes?
A Coke bottle stopped
with a sprinkle head
sat at one end of the board.
She'd swap iron for bottle,