Whole and Full of Light

When the grief rises

because of

an archbishop shot and left

in the gutter, or because of

children –

(but no poem can stand that;

you know that story

even better than I. Start again.) 

When, on a soft afternoon

the light all washes away,

when I wonder

if any of the others

cast away from that same shipwreck

ever think of me, ever think of me

kindly – 

listen –

I am not, never was,

a symptom of your mental disease,

nor am I wanting to open

doors well closed for good reasons.

I am not one to get drunk

and send an email

as if nothing ever happened;

and if I am maudlin at times

it is only because, as a poet,

these things are incumbent upon me.

You said

(this was long ago!)

you would miss having someone

to write you poems.

Which was sweet, I think.

Now, when a bird whistles

twice with the same note

(like a gate shifted back and forth

by a worn man who wonders

if it's latched, and finds it's not)

twice with the same note

followed by a low, ancient,

complicated murmur,

when the leaves cast so many

shadows that

I think “I am underwater,”

and the sun is hidden

behind not only cloud,

but a drench of something

thicker and older than water;

well –

then, I find myself

considering that

the palm of my hand

once rested on your hair

when you were half-asleep,

and that stars, where no stars are ever seen

poured down

on our broken lives –

and then, I foolishly wish

for news from a far country,

for travelers' reports to say

they saw you laughing, that they saw you

whole and full of light.