He’s come to the beginning of the end
Of the poem, the moment when he turns
To place the first of its words on paper.

One morning I awoke
to a dead pigeon on the roof
of the building next to mine,

It’s not enough to talk to plants
you also have to listen. And day after day
it’s the same petty complaints and trivial gossip:

Never was there a time when I did not lead him,
when I did not feel his hand upon my shoulder.

Never was there a time I was not his eyes

“Where is he—you know, the . . . one?”
my ninety-year-old friend asked
and I knew that she meant her son—

Afterwards I said the palm tree was like a snake
coiling around the delicate outdoor bannister
but Janette said like a swan courting a swan.

The door. If you pull it it’s heavy; if you
push it it’s hard. 

Bands of distracted emotions snap getting
wider as daytime colors sink and roll on their
sides. 

Such a flow of language!

She is a neighbor too,
and I am getting there