Three Poems

Cirrus

The time has come now when there’s nothing
To talk about, the horizon home terribly beautiful,
Even in old age your silence is bolted and strong.
Loose clothes mock your health with cold simplicity:
Your blouse sloped to the left, revealing a bare
Atoll of bone, a pair of loved shoes refuse to hold
Your feet - when you walk they suck your heels
As you drag your handbag, your leather tombstone.

So what of these mare’s tails, these cirrus whips
Above masses of cloud on fire in the western skies,
These ships waiting, the wisps of sirens playing
Backward from their burning decks, a terrible
Reversal - the lick-back of beautiful things.

Maize fields stand tall, and the dusk light blinds
The way home as though the matron of your ward
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