slow
my walk these days
as if as if
a kind of civilization
has reached an end

gone my sister
this past year,
and her birthday comes--
I light candles and sing
and cut a thin slice for her

as if
after a funeral
cremation,
another of my books
removed from the publisher's list

at least
ten conquests
by the age of twenty,
ah Genji, Murasaki
made you bolder than life

the coffee shop life
is petite, minuscule,
I know I know,
and still on wobbly tables
I try to spill by fives

my childhood
I discover
was a wide opening
and now old age
a contraction to a dot

my kid
finding God's
a help,
and in my walk-alone world
I'm glad for her

give me
for this last hurrah
a quiet space
where pages turn in lamplight
without haste

at the downtown
flower-shop
two crones
wait in the cold
to embrace the reds, yellows, greens