Wednesday, April 28, 2010

A poem from today's class with Kim Stafford

Berkeley Springs in the Winter

No map, no trail
The cold seeps into us but we go on, the talk too precious to lose, like your breast.

It takes a while to find the park in this state park, the groomed lawn around the inn belongs to a golf course, not the West Virginia wilds.

Cross-legged and leaning against the headboard
Reading from the Tibetan Book of the Dead
You tell me to hold death lightly.

Seventeen years gone by, I on my coast, you on yours.

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