Either

I am dying

or I am not.

Perhaps

there are

small animals

under the house

mouse, racoon, rat,

gopher though none of us

can find

a trace.

And late

a small plane

makes a

straining sound

low over the trees

though only I am

awake.

Moments of quiet

are absolute

with depths

like the depths

of small pools

high in the mountains.

Everyone has the flu

rising and coughing

taking this or that

for the rasp.

Behind the blind

light still burns

at the edge of the bay.

Someone drives over the bridge.

Home is

in every direction.

∞

From the Fall 1977 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 14, No. 1)

Text © Susan Griffin, 1997-2020