when i watch you 
wrapped up like garbage 
sitting, surrounded by the smell 
of too old potato peels 
or
when i watch you 
in your old man's shoes 
with the little toe cut out 
sitting, waiting for your mind 
like next week's grocery 
i say
when i watch you
you wet brown bag of a woman 
who used to be the best looking gal in georgia
used to be called the Georgia Rose
i stand up
through your destruction
i stand up

The forest is its own thanksgiving

Walking a mile or so from the road

Past the lake & ancient post office

I skim the long bodies of the beech trees

The elegant ascension of their slender trunks

A kind of gorgeous illusory play

Of white bars against the dark ochre matting

Of the earth below

Peace is where you find it

As here the last secret of the dawn air mixes

With a nostalgia so perfumed by misery

Only the rhythm of the walk itself

Carries me beyond the past

To say I miss you is to say almost nothing

To say the forest is the sanctuary of ghosts

Is only the first step of my own giving way—

Not the giving up—just the old giving thanks