The Blue Bowl

Like primitives we buried the cat

with his bowl. Bare-handed

we scraped sand and gravel

back into the hole.

They fell with a hiss

and thud on his side,

on his long red fur, the white feathers

between his toes, and his

long, not to say aquiline, nose.

We stood and brushed each other off.

There are sorrows keener than these.

Silent the rest of the day, we worked,

ate, stared, and slept. It stormed

all night; now it clears, and a robin

burbles from a dripping bush

like the neighbor who means well

but always says the wrong thing.

Your poem’s better than any of the crap I post. Truly, it is.

I was just writing a poem about what you felt you’d been promised that had never arrived. I’ll try to touch it up and post it in the morning.

Kenyon. If you’ve never read her, read Jane. And if you have read her, if you know her work, then you know what a huge compliment it is that I’m giving you in comparing your work and voice to hers. She’s a hero of mine. Bishop, Gluck and Kenyon. When I grow up, I want to write like them.

Consider yourself thoroughly validated, friend. (grin)