Help me lift my head up
that I might see the full arc of the sun
one last time before I fall
I promised to return
to the shaggy mantle of grass
that binds you
surrounded by golf courses, which should amuse you
supine, facing westward hoping to catch the sunset,
at least it seems that way to me.
Under a mound of dirt you lay
I imagine a saxophone
Playing ‘Round Midnight
Maple trees line the road
Their shade saved for the living
While you lay beneath the blazing sun
When I was in high school I knew nothing of poetry, except a schoolgirl’s frustration at not being able to answer…
“Certain things fall silent in us when we think that certain things are no longer possible.” – Frank Bidart, Poet,…
