i had this thought
it was a good one too,
made a little sense maybe, not
a capital Something but
damn how it startles
out on the edge of a memory
where the you is still here
and not a letter too late:
how you came to my daughter’s
memorial, there on the river
how you took
your middle child parasailing off
over Lake Coeur d’Alene
ohgod go on flying you,
flying the air
today, in the awful quiet
no scrambling for scriptured moat
or music to be rung, the flowers
disassemble by themselves.
this guest and that
like churn behind the boat
have spent themselves on shore.
there comes a hush
to village ways, that old dance
of news and meal:
clouds are counting every now
and sky has softened
near to lead.
George Perreault has published in journals and anthologies in the US and elsewhere.