by Doug Ramspeck
Here where the years congeal inside the body,
I sleep, I wake, am ferried into the new world.
Nothing changes after always, the limbs of the plum
trees outside this window drooping so low they almost
touch the ground. But still there is something
consensual in moonlight, my mother, in memory,
mopping the kitchen floor at the end of days,
the stars a myth of distant boats.