Except for the shirt pulled from the ocean, except for her hands, which keep folding the shirt, except for her body, which once held their bodies, my sister wants everything back now-- If there were a god who could out of empty shells carried by waves to shore make amends-- If the ocean saved in a jar could keep from turning to salt-- She's hearing things: bird calling to bird, cat outside the door, thorn of the blackberry against the trellis.
A recent study found that poems increased
the sale price of a home by close to $9,000.
The years, however, have not been kind to poems.
The Northeast has lost millions of poems,
reducing the canopy. Just a few days ago,
high winds knocked a poem onto a power line
a few blocks from my house.
I had not expected to lose so many at once.
"We've created a system that is not healthy
for poems," said someone. Over the next thirty years,
there won't be any poems where there are overhead wires.
Some poems may stay as a nuisance,
as a gorgeous marker of time.