I never could have thought my keyboard transforms so naturally into a grand piano every time I write. The prelude, the exposition, the recapitulation: it's my mind that creates; the fingers execute.

and you say she's gone for good

                                         (for Jane Kenyon)


the cyclone

took your home and your wits

last monsoon but

that’s not true –

you were orphaned after that

when she deserted you

on the grounds overlooking

the avenue of eucalypti, tall,

spindly against the sky,

where you first touched

her lips with yours

and felt their tenderness…


I follow you often

to your hearth that glows

with butt-ends of cigarettes,

the potato peels you dump in there

every evening, and

the writing paper

turned to balls of crepe…


she said she loved you

or didn’t she?

but you did and that’s all

that matters now when the only

sign of her is your face,

her wardrobe,

her scented handkerchief

(it was scented), and

that half-drunk tea-cup

on the dining table