Jan/Feb 2006 Poetry


by Joel Fry


I come from the river,
where an abandoned pier
awaits collapse,
and water moccasins
slither through reflecting
dregs of flotsam.

I live alone.
Only five people remember
my name. Only one visits.

She fishes along the bank
behind my trailer. Sometimes
we speak.

Her face is as small
as a child's foot. Her eyes
are deserted isles.

When we meet,
she touches me
with the courtesy
of solitude, with the warmth
I stow on rainy days, with
the gaze I turn to in sleep.


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