DEBRA WOOLF

Your time ticking away,
the convalescence after the absurd and
the coming and going from tiredness to calm
don't allow the memories to gather,
as if at times, just like
a blind abrasive sword,
perturbed by your sharing of a needle
with a stranger.
In Pamplona, Spain, you told me.

Look at Montgomery. This city
has never had this
breath of calmness.
Sit on a park bench. It could be
a docile animal. Look at
how the houses sway the silhouettes
of the ash trees,
the sick trunks, the naked branches,
the fallen leaves, swirling, show
the way to winter.
Lay down on the bench and take everything in,
those there are clouds and this is
and always will. Sink into the blue,
the thrush flies sweetly on it's way,
fleeing the cold to some other land,
Pay no heed to the bird song. Remember
not the autumn honey of when your
body melted into that young man's
on the beach. Shoo away
those thoughts and lie at ease:
those who don't know are not to blame,
and you, then,
did not know of your sickness.
Forget it and submerge
into the abundant blue.
Keep in mind that for no reason at all,
destiny marks us as the reason.
In Baiona, in the Basque Country, you told me.