Back from Poets’ Camp
At poets’ camp, I wrote, I thought and read
and took the fullness as the world.
Then I returned. Real life! So double,
Magnficent in its archly grinning way;
the things we touch amidst the vast
There are mortal things to be taken care of
devolving fences, lost opposum, children,
unwatered lawns, crabgrass,
your hernia, those crenelated tubes and mass
fitted back in the ventral packet.
Sedation made us notice a new
harmonious; your tone, smoothed down
a notch, brought miniparadise. It’s not
the heat to spark a forest fire that matters;
it’s caring for the one-worded poem between us.