The Poetry of Joan Houlihan

As to the Origin

One is gone who trailed daylight, was favored
by fields, took the hot breath and gab
of August, morning and its mock owls.
Time steepens.

As to the origin, and pith, of loss:
I have no talk, just brace for the vertebra
askew, taped clavicle, hip, pinned.
Whatever helps.

Made of distances now, I only want less
and move with the stagger of something
dying down the day's green halls.
Wanting what's left.

          Originally published in Fine Madness

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