On Finding A Book To Read Poem by Kevin Kiely

For the days that are left the smallest song:
A wish for snow on your parted hair.
The fire is warm but the nights belong
To the days that are left, and the smallest song
—‘The Smallest Song' Martha Collins, The Catastrophe of Rainbows

Well that is enough: the smallest song
and some things words can do
and did they cut deep, where the ooze of blood stings
and how long to heal into poetry?
it must do more or less, it must do if it sings

by the crackling fire with a lamp on
when you know that such exercise cannot outweigh
January beyond the window
and sheep looking warm in moonlight

the road sloping down
from the Heinrich Böll cottage and hill
to the flowing cream of waves

and loneliness speaking from this collection
left in the west

messages in an empty Cognac bottle, sand stained
we could have walked with you, been here

do I know you from your b&w thumbnail?
the best smile out front
beside the photo credit, ISBN and price

the only gossip in your wake: how you left for hours
the doors unlocked, the underfloor heating full on
you had gone shopping or walking or hanging in there?

and gave a reading in Doogort hall
the local newspaper promo-ed it——is that all we know?
a blurb: born in Nebraska, raised in Iowa

a shelf of disparate slim volumes that failed to engage
except for yours.
It was the ache behind the words that caught me