In a Way

The very outer shores of memory –
rubble pushed and strewn –
as if glacially deposited by life –
boulders graced with faces of the wife

of someone’s cousin – or a neighbor,
lover, friend – or other passersby
who are all nameless now – perhaps
were nameless then – whose

naked tender softnesses remain
in the moraine: layered and abstracted –
something in them mildly shakes
their gazes into gentle angles –

calm in all the spangles of the colors
in the sunset heralding the night.
Someone asks you if you are
all right today. In a way, you say.






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