Driving along the northern border of Massachusetts
imagining an existence less severed,
when beauty,
upon me,
is no longer wasted.

It has been years since I've been breathless.

Can I guide a son toward kindness
without hypocrisy or
an air
ironic?

Is the possession of my own life an illusion?

If I retreat to the forest will there be anything there to find?

One day I will relinquish my name
and my memory,
then polished or dull,
will sleep mute
beneath
the feet of foxes
and
fowl.