Chronic Fatigue System
Too tired to exercise (who gets mono in their 50s?),
endorphins droop and symptoms of menopause return,
drench night’s sheets.
And the bones, breaking down, what that other poet said,
‘the leaking’ or ‘letting in of light,’
the bones shift for comfort.
Surprisingly, lying in the darkened room
without tv or book, I’m not depressed,
let hours hang, slip.
Breath wants to go in, wants to come out.
I forgive myself for growing old.
Civilization
It ends with a pipe that is not a pipe,
a house that is not a home,
a Christ in ruins.
Between covers of books, sad cut-outs wander.
Keep your brought-to-this-point
harvest moving,
distract with drift
of snow or petal.
Don’t lie about your end.
That would be wrong.
Making way for the next
When Mum died writing came.
After Dad – money.
Together they equal good
but unreconciled.
I edge to the window
Crow family, brought down by winter
from five to two, caw, go up.
