I can’t see the widow in the garden
her bright scarf grinning in the sun
I don’t recall the swarm of fish—
the garish mouths, the little gasps of mud
I’ve forgotten the dice box of thumbs
their flight, their fret and clatter down the hall
I’ve stopped thinking of the sea of thought
the weak peaks, flotsam in the swells
I can’t remember that particular
grey light (you know the one)
that lingers on the pavement and
keeps the day from warming