Spring Valley is bone
dry. Here in New York skies rain
tears of compassion.
San Diego fire 3
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Spring Valley is bone
dry. Here in New York skies rain
tears of compassion.
What’s necessary?
The triage of memory.
A pyre to the past.
Photos first, then the
baby albums. Love letters.
We can buy new clothes.
Her view from the hill
– once so fine in good weather –
just blackened landscapes.
Anne emails to say
smoke plumes rise like shrouds of loss.
Below, hell ablaze.
Can it be midnight?
I’m losing track of time, hours
misplaced like lost keys.
Today computers
obsess me. (I must go back
to baking cookies.)
You think you know me.
Carefully constructed, I
reinvent daily.
Anonymity
becomes us all as we put
our second life first.
Some days the words spread
smoothly. Other days they stick,
like peanut butter.