16, heavier, going to school
without her books.
King Street
Honolulu
For Rob
Handsome Rob. Half the women hate you; the other half will give you anything. Deep in Nam: your buddy shot, tracheotomy. "He died happy," you told me, "he believed I was going to save him." Perhaps he knew he would lie in your arms forever.
Too Big
Listening to Schubert while Great-Aunt Hannah embroiders on the wall, and darkness closes— what have we come to? We've gone wrong, too big to find our way by song, light falling on a face and handkerchief, illumination in the manner of Rembrandt.
Peter's Answer
Little Blue Heron, young, still white, by the north causeway bridge— stick legs, too thin for the swelling body, the visual weight of feathers, stepping slowly in shallow water, long toes trailing limply, then extending, three splayed forward, one back. Brilliant neck curving, poised. Dagger beak the same gray as legs and toes. Why is nature beautiful? The lust for pattern, Peter said. The heron's head rose and twisted, circular eye, light brown, orange rimmed, ancient intelligence asking a different question. I was unmoving, not dangerous. The heron turned to hunt, brush, a cloud above the river.
New Smyrna Beach,
Florida
Wally's Poem