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yellow chair
foggy air
at the landing
sit and stare
engines shake
widening wake
regret explain
excuse forsake
gulls wheel low
and the crow
you had your moment
let it go
From Peccadilloes (Kelsay Books, 2013). Copyright © 2013 by Jan Schreiber. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.
When my keen fury fades
and time has blurred these eyes,
after your grief subsides
and tactile memory goes,
can you recapture me?
Each year in a private hour
visit the rock-edged sea
where winds across the shore
blow as they used to blow
i.m. Sam Fox, 1941–2020
In a charmed summer garden
among the fruit trees where
we walked along the wall
we barely noticed it.
At one point when you leaned
against it, it gave way.
There was a sudden breeze.
You were no longer there.
Branch, frond, fingers, ribs of fish
but man-made, stronger, regular, its form
less lovely, simpler, ready to possess,
briefly as words, everything in its path.
Its studied imperfection leaves behind
much on the first stroke; still it can recoup.
It never gathers all it grasps, and yet,