Reading at the Wesley Chapel

            So odd your words, entombed
            by stained glass, that cross fixed
            iridescent to the wall. Tobacco stains
            brown against your palm; coffee - as always,
            antacid nearby. For some your sleep
            was timely, the state
            distant, yet reveled by Roethke in demise.

            Friend in Montana, the time between
            strikes becomes a footprint
            for your soul. There are no reservations
            here. God marks the miles with booze
            lain long forgotten. For your words
            I kiss my wrist, suck blood to
            the upper layer. Is water

            all we see, or is it still,
            gasping for your line? I dream you
            huddled midstream begging trout for more
            prayer, wind moaning hymns
            for your communion.

            Sad day for the Dolly; I make love to
            a blonde with lead weight 
            in my arms. This is her response: 
            make tongue recall wind on ripples of the river
            Forget the past in robes of a monk.

                                                           for Richard Hugo