FOUR POEMS

My Children’s Inheritance

A fancy for high green hills by a sea, baggy spaces
in the day, a knack for gunpowder thinking,
a library humming like a swarm of gnats;

the intrigue of a woman with a pitch-perfect mind,
blinking eyes whose silence is ancient and naked,
a grave that is not a grave but a ruin to visit in middle age;

a chifforobe of half-empty cologneand dried flowers more dignified in death, bothevidence that I once cherished bouquets and timelessness;