Poem, September 2019
Black Car

The headlights open a clearing ahead
like a page of a book from childhood

I used to come here often and stop by the roadside. The hills would appear
as layers that disappeared into fog
or opened into the bay, white with an excess of light

Now in the black hills there are forms
in the bushes and trees I can’t see;
I’ve come to be sheltered from them

I remember you said that you liked the rain

Why you said it, in what place and with what tone of voice,
I don’t

And a year later
on the afternoon of the snowy pond
when I wanted you again—

I still feel the wanting.
It’s far, like a thought of a whale