Catherine Owen

  I will not write about him today There is river after all & sky Of his loss, there is nothing more to say At the estuary’s mouth, a shielded bay Where swallows slip when the rocks are dry No, I will not write about him today The sand kin to stone, at its softest, clay Waves now a…

  I think always of you waiting Though why this should be I don’t know The strange vague esteem of the living Imagining the dead have nothing more to do   Than hunger after their time on earth — The kisses, the rifts, those indifferences, those whims — All the range that once was feeling’s surfeit…