Sunday, January 13, 2008

Lot

I, the shamed widower, frown
and pray again. She was a good
woman—impulsive—I loved her.
Would that I had a last moment
to recall: failing eyelids, golden
meadow, a goodbye kiss.

God. That within me quells,
shaking unsolicited the comforting
dust from memory

and so I condense: my wet, living
eye salt muddies the dust wherein,
dear Father, You’ve took
her.

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