that imperfect light in which my father
holds and steadies me, and my mother
tells us to be still and look
in her direction, then pushes
the shutter, jarring the camera slightly,
a simple maneuver she would never master.
If
you were here I would ask you
to turn and walk away, knowing
you'd have no choice and would believe me
if I told you I'd made all of this up
to pass the time, as it has,
regardless . And now
my house is so quiet
what I imagine most clearly
is my wife and daughter turning
in their sleep upstairs,
and now I believe I can hear
their breathing, so precise
and thoughtless,
so easy to mistake for my own.
James Galvin
WHAT WE SAID THE LIGHT SAID
Mystery moves in God-like ways
Is one of many possibilities
And may be why I'm here without you now,
Watching the sun go down.
High clouds bruise and white peaks incarnadine.
Slender tree oj muliebrity
would be another explanation.
Prairie grass, seductive, luxuriates in amber.
Some other
Scraps of clouds the rain left behind
Hunker down for the night in valleys.
