for Isaac
I’m sending
a homeless
man with a
shopping cart
poems about emptiness.
“Are you somewhere
warm?”
“On the outside.
I’m crying and you’re
sending me yellow faces.”
I am somewhere at odd hours
Listening to the furnace kick
And a coffee pot
gurgle and hiss.
Warm?
Isn’t that our difference-
I carry hope like a young
heart does heat.
And you dropped
yours in a gutter, knowing better.
Difficult Degrees 
Oh boy, this one twists my (old) heart. Masterly … and excruciating.
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wow Rosemary!! THANK YOU
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Hi Amy — Do you ever read Larry Levis? He died in 1996 in his mid-40s, heart attack they say but he was a lifelong addict. Anyway, he was as tough-minded about the street side of reality as you are, an enormous poetic talent whose heart walked in very worn shoe leather. The cold can’t stop seeping in in poems likes this, which lends a shamanic sensitivity (which you have gained through your various initiations) a toughness and ripeness. So write it. There’s an accountability for one’s poetic here, it just isn’t enough to say it well. (I touched on something similar recently in “Homeless”) (And if you haven’t read Levis yet, “Elegy,” published after his death, is his broken culmination). Best, B.
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This is deeply evocative! The last stanza speaks volumes about life and how it alters our perspective.
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