So much is unexplained. There was
the death you knew about, could smell
months in advance, the sun riding
on water the day he died—his mouth
not firm, one eye sagging, hidden
almost in the imperfect shadow.
Did you take pride in your composure
unfaltering in the June heat? A father
you'd hardly spoken to in years?
Now you've awakened at dawn to shudder,
remembering. Where was the fault
that shriveled all those days to ash?
A week ago you walked in the morning
down to the newsstand on the corner.
She was riding a bicycle, lean
and sober, eye on the wandering cars,
threading traffic in light rain.
And seeing her face you half remembered
the time when all you were concerned with
was just as simple as a ride
through heavy traffic in light rain,
Saturday morning on a bicycle
in a town that looked something like this.
Wily Apparitions, Cummington Press,
Reprinted by permission of the author.