Poetry

The last uncle is pushing off
in his funeral skiff (the usual
black limo) having locked
the doors behind him
on a whole generation.

To find my childhood. My God! Empty pigeon coops.
I ate rotten oranges and old pieces of paper.

I want to give you
more than these words
finite as husks
or a string of barbed wire.

We knew about the ocean:
  sharks and moods and pearls.
     Flood waters in Brigantine.

August, goldenrod blowing. We walk
into the graveyard, to find
my grandfather’s grave. Ten years ago