(2/21/17)
two
eggs, scrambled in unsalted butter, one
medium
red potato, home fried—plantains
were
green—two vegetarian sausage links;
weighed
today at the doctor, I’ve turned into
a
ghost, just words & breath, black t-shirts, gym pants,
shock
of sixty-year old hair streaked white, but full—
born
lucky with bad lungs; olive oil whispers,
hunger: if rain answers I can’t make it out
◦
so
I told her, the doctor, I don’t want to
wither:
katsuras in drizzle mostly moss
&
gray bark—& how do rhododendron buds
grow
scales all winter, silent & silent, bloom
then
in technicolor May tongues; my next lives:
a
ripple in the river, a crow’s feather
floating
from a maple, one letter in a
poem,
echo of a shoe on wet pavement
◦
yesterday
in a room just this much too warm
talk
of praying with the dying brought to mind
a
chord in an open tuning: let it ring—
today
February settled in my lungs:
it
has a room there, walls all watercolors,
lamps
refracting raindrops, the books all begin
with
Japanese maples forgetting crimson,
with
every street changed into a mirror
◦
tomorrow:
vegetable broth, bamboo shoots,
mushrooms,
chili oil, tamari, green onions
simmering
in a black stock pot; earlier,
rain
will put her hands on my shoulders, proving
I
haven’t faded, forsythia’s branches
will
reach out yellow past tai chi studio
windows,
my rib cage dilated to make room—
hope
in one breath let go, the word I’ll give you
Jack Hayes
© 2017
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