I don’t know their names but I know their faces      and they’re not here.I’d like to think that what is truecannot recede or be forgotten.Like faces. Like names. Like the lostamong us. The disappeared. Stolen.Beyond recovery. No longer recognized.Or just dead and buried.When the earthquake took awaymost of a nearby village and part of hers,the... Continue Reading →

that if I open the windowand hold out my handit would feel moonlightdelicate and invisibly softand if I spread my fingersthe moon’s light would softeneven more as it gently fallsthe rest of the way downto the snow-covered earthand simply whiten the snoweven more than it actually isand be welcomedalmost as if it had never gone... Continue Reading →

. . . perhaps a Paris      very much like Paris or not quite Paris.                   --Herbert Morris.  “Sophia and Marcello on a Bench”Perhaps Paris isn’t Paris at all, if it ever was.Just a twisted vine flowing up blue shutters.Before you arrive, it is no longer therewhich makes it convenient to invent.Like anything that can be... Continue Reading →

Maybe it’s as easy as this:knowing she will always be therewhen you come home.That she won’t have gone away,even thought going awaywas a place she could go to.And that she’ll knowyou will always come home,and she will look upfrom whatever she’s doing,or come from some inner room,to welcome you inas if it’s the first timeyou... Continue Reading →