"A sad soul, sometimes, but a good soul, modest and generous, has written this book, and sensitively inhabits it. . . . his singing in subtle and ample, his vision sharp and large, his poems gratifying and unique."
A man asleep among the flowers
is what I remember best.
They'd taken him out to a cot in the yard,
bordered with marigolds and day lilies,
the temporary sickbed in the sunshine and fresh air,
where he'd seemed far from the drone of lawn mowers,
the circling retriever's restlessness,
the world all around his awkward face-down sprawl.
She'd seemed faraway, too, watching him, watching her brother,
another afternoon on the darkened porch
as he slept in a chair. And that's what it was--
the steady, undistracted, undeceived gaze--
the equal, the answering thing, his dying, her love.
© BOA Editions, Ltd. 1994