TWO GRAVES

She could only love by remembering,
What she remembered was a revision.

She remembered unborn grandchildren
Standing in awe before the dance of two flickers.

She remember him standing in fog
Among apples and apocalypses.

Her response, an aposiopesis, apparitional.
She saw them together near misty stubble fields.

She saw a willow-tree cemetery, two graves.
She saw two graves; his and hers. The graves touched.


BY THE SEA, WHEN FAR AWAY IN ROOM WITH A CLOSED DOOR

Recalling the sea oats on sand dunes,
What is there to remember?

The wind-uplifted sea spume on the gray
Of her dark wind-swept hair,
The flutter of water into fragments and flight.

Wings of water without bodies flying
Towards patches of blue, seaside flowers.

My forecast of forlorn-ness  myself,
Soon to fall again, soon to see again
The orange flames from a silver sword.

To see the pale blue eyes as lapwings
That can sparkle, but not fly,
No matter how close, always distant.

She, ankle-deep by me in shore water,
Yet far-away, where the wind shakes pine needles.

I foresee the future, a white room, empty
Except for a white chair,  a glass of wine
On a white rug.

Locke is a poet and photographer. His poems have appeared in American Poetry Review, Nation, Bitter Oleander, and Adagio Poetry Quarterly.

Cover Page l Next Page