FF (b. l938 / Troy, NY)


I got your message from I know not where
but there was trouble on my phone. I heard
just this: breakfast…tugboat…lemon…click,
followed by a static hiss. (I, too, am, at my best,
succinct, but sometimes pith can camouflage
an anxiously loquacious bliss.)

I guess you spoke of yesterday, late
autumn’s near-last gasp: silver water,
yellow trees, a bright red tug, the sooty
sky, talk of an impending breach.
(And I should mention our delight
in eddies of reflective speech.)

Another kind of tug, on memory’s sleeve,
marks each timely rupture of the scene -
birds, boats, waves, and wakes - a place
for two, a passing view, within our grasp,
beyond our reach.

by Frank Fagan

Comments (1)

'Another kind of tug, on memory’s sleeve' good line. First verse, sublime.