An Old Man To His Wife
My moan is surprising,
rising each morning
in the room’s corners.
You can feel dissipation
course my body
like trains
running the rim of a peninsula,
each iron wheel
bumping a trestle of bone.
Sometimes you jerk my limbs,
but this is not enough
to beat away
nostalgic distraction.
Every time you face me
I demand the mountains,
I demand the sea,
I demand the field behind our house
that blooms acorn flesh.
*Google "Late Alabama Joel Fry."
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