unresolved


.


in a complex, you taught:


root hog or die.


what can we do but imagine, that our life described 
in whatever  instant  of thought becomes  image (as the 
picture of me, the baby, in yr arms 
 you sitting on the 
root cellar door with . . .

time ahead.

this time that I now inhabit to cancel 
my days.


.


no image/ in truth

no subject but time that contains our demise 
so that my attempt at the invitation to place a letter in the grave -

I found, instead, a botched copper horse bulged in a desert scape that I tooled in an early grade; 
you had it

copper to last forever. I tacked it to my wall

your empty grave

grieving, grieving the resolve of the unresolved 
& only this outside guess 
at your thought: 
the conscious measure of each shallow breath, pressures 
anxieties, indignities, embarrassments, false 
hope



"I'm in my second childhood"