Waking one morningwe cannot findKate or Wesley,or his cows and sheep,
It thrashes in the oaks and soughs in the elms.Catches on innocence and soon dismantles that.Sends children bewildered into life. Childhood
It’s a sunny weekday in Mayand I have had a bowl of beef stewand a cold bottle of beer on the brick patio
For all the years he worked as a pattern cutterin the denim sweatshops of Los Angeles, my father never spoke of what it was he did.
It is night. I feel it is night not because darkness has fallen (what do I care about darkness falling) but because down in myself the shouting has stopped, has given up.
I just left them there holding their breath,summer dripping from their honeyedmuzzles.