reading the poetry
of galway kinnell
again
at random
on this soggy saturday morn
his work as it
invariably does
brings on my little rain as well
these tears of a old man
not quite as long gone as kinnell
(what is he now eighty something
seven?
five?)
but certain still
i will never
catch up
(turn to his rapture and feel
my despair)
though i sense
he too even one such as he
must still wish he could go back
and repair some things
for who among us
ever reaches the end
where it was we dreamed we could be
like the surgeons who
found a way to amputate a boy's leg and reattach it
backwards
so he can walk again
soon as he can teach himself which way
he's going
