Thursday, February 24, 2011


He isn't like the old men
who wonder if

we salt the waters
exumed from wells.

He's good as old ice -

cools tea with his finger,
will tease a finger round an ear
draw circles over the amygdala -
the brain's space for smell of fear,

and, he imagines, his fear of smells.

He isn't wondering why;

    does wonder if it's he
    or is it the dog, once,

was a part of an occasional dying poem.