Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Focusing, II

I’ve turned seventy-seven

The day she has an MRI

To assess possible

Damage to her brain

From perhaps a stroke.

There’s no point

Railing against inevitability.

Thirty years ago these

Intervening years

Seemed an eternity

And if we could live

This long, a paradise,

But I never thought the touch

Of her hand would grow this cold.

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