More on: Poetry

I knelt naked in the grotto west of the meditation pool—
the closest in years I’d gotten to belief. Around her feet:

cockle shells, one gold earring, a crochet-covered rock,

Fear not, a voice said.
And out of the voice emerged a figure.
He looked like a man
but we knew he wasn’t.

It isn’t sight or sound or taste I’ve missed
the most—I’d been deprived of each before—
but routine, trusty touch, which we ignore
promiscuously:

First rain in the new house—
walls passed inspection, but
who knows? It’s hard to trust
in bricks. Aren’t they just cut-up

mud, lashed now by spray
from clotted gutters?