It is an ordinary death
for its time, family
in a clotaround the high, white
bed, gull at the window.
The manon the bed sticks
and twigs, remnants
of pain.He opens his hand,
lets mine go.
The gulllifts from the sill
into the solid
wall of sky.
POEMS
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MORE OF SB's POEMS
@WATERMARK |A Poet's Notebook
- Disclaimer
Please do not assume that I am the speaker/ subject of my poems.
In these times of creative nonfiction and fictionalized memoirs, I think of the poem itself as true fiction: it is most likely not factual, but it must be true.
It is likely to be -- it is best if it is -- a truth I did not know before I wrote, and may not understand even then.
A poem is my way of discovering (dis-covering) what I feel; sometimes, what I think -- but it is not necessarily biographical.
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