Thursday, January 23, 2014


For A.G.

Goroshek, how I miss
Our little games. No one
Was to blame. Our Lady
Covered us with her veil.

When I asked the ash tree,
Where was my beloved,
You came bearing oranges
And rusty henna roses.

You sipped a bitter cup to its dregs,
Bottomless Baikal eyes brewing
That book of anecdotes you're busy
Concocting to amuse the angels.

Through the mists, a glimpse,
But the noble white oak
Has gone. Forgive me, accept
These salt tears, and a prayer.

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