November rain

Today was dominated by drizzle,

inevitable in this country

like a chronic pain that came

to inhabit an unsuspecting body.

Nothing—no bird, no plane, 

no conscientious superhuman 

moves in all that gray,

seeming infinite and as victorious as failure.

Some would brave the droplets

that prick skin and conscience

—some will stay inside unmoving 

and unmoved

like a washout who has learned to resent

the limits of life and self,

like a patient who has attained knowledge

of the inevitable malaise

and loathes the necessity 

of resignation and waiting

Books I have

I have, still,

A life surrounded

By bold, dependable, books

Thin, thick, yellowing, salient, new

Loved by my friends, lovers, guests

They are all presently gone—but still

These have remained to occupy me

Filling bed, shelves, corners, seats

Books reliable, abiding, true,

Shore up this life

I have, still.