The Touch and Other Poems
The Touch
Forty years on, the wine
we poured out on the lawn
leaving the party together
reaches the ocean.
Flies at our dinner—
Won’t eat much sings the tiny
ghost of my mother.
Forty years on, the wine
we poured out on the lawn
leaving the party together
reaches the ocean.
Won’t eat much sings the tiny
ghost of my mother.
