touched with glints from a full, unstinted shine
that might be months away but is not forgotten -
today's Northwest November weather exactly,
just as he looks, looking up from the book's back jacket,
and not utterly unlikely he'd drive in Eugene, near Spencer's Butte,
geographically speaking; no longer hung-over, but
perhaps like the mountains beclouded by some mood near noon,
- though three years, three months and about four days gone -
it wasn't he, of course.
It
was some other bright,
grim, witty, Irish-faced devil, alight
with what he'll say when he gets there. And yet it was,
too - as we are, in a great mix, each other, by the tricky grace
of changeable weather, and memory, and place.
K. E. Duffin
Male
Orion on his knees in the dusty-haired trees
his mauve cloak of sky
shrugging off its stars,
or beginning a frozen cartwheel after Taurus,
that divining rod with eye
of ruby rivaling Mars,
reminds us of the delicacy of men,
who were never made for fire,
mud or vaults of sea
though history always packed them dumbly in,
supple bodies for hire,
a biomass for free,
