“I am lonely for myself
I can’t find a real poem”
- Frank O’Hara

I never used to have memories
		   a rich thickness absorbs all light
I am worried all the time
subdued by an active anguish:
		   “We’re all dust.”
O lucky, lucky Pierre	I blame intolerant hearts
		There’s no warmth in gin-laced starlight
You are now		free	   to pursue future endeavors:
		a neighbor’s dog-bark cough,
		a cricket’s last canto,
		a slug’s breath
Gray thoughts stagger
It is 3:07 a.m.   March 7    my father’s birthday    I’d kill to see a ghost
Dear Alan, hello


© 2007 by  Margaret Brady. All rights reserved.