I have two coffees at my desk: one that's cold, and the new one, still hot to my touch. So that's the way I am today - on the edge of distraction, carefully trying to match words to my pictures. Below my feet, the dog snarls lying on the floor, afraid of movement, my daughter's constant ministrations. You are a patient - this to the dog, but she could mean me. She doesn't know her help isn't an answer - sometimes we still die. * I watch my neighbor pamper his boat, the full-sized one, not the toy collectible. We wave at each other, the same old pleasantries exchanged. At the funeral, the marines had stood stiffly proud in their dress blues. At the front of the church a Christian rock band played some gospel tunes. The minister said don't be afraid to console them in the weeks to come, don't be afraid to speak about the death of their son. The need will still reside in their home for many months. I can't get past hellos and talk about the weather. His boat's alive - rich maple facade reflecting the sun. * My sister-in-law's father is dying hard in Iowa. An accident loading liquid fertilizer. He's a hero - saved a young man, held him down in an alkaline bath to neutralize the chemical spilled. Forgot to save himself. Acid burned the upper half of his body's skin. Scoured the lungs and ate them away. Sixty percent? Maybe worse. He can't talk, the throat burned. Only the slightest pressure of fingers, their crackling skin telling her he's still aware of himself. We've been told don't try to call for the next three days. * I see their car last night, on Interstate 70, racing east to his intensive care room in Des Moines. My brother drinking cokes. Driving past 80 mph. She's in the backseat with the kids: her hyperactive 3 year old, his one year old brother and the baby at her breast, days old, hungry for milk. * Boxes are a daughter's drums behind my chair. A song's being made. Or a play. The doctor is in. Paperwork's being done. Scenery drawn. I'm waiting for the poem I want to write about angels. * Without any edges what wind there is keeps silent today,          and immortality must be like this ice, a shining glaze circumscribing our view, a solid halo.

I hope so says the girl, anxious for life and the birds keep quiet, knowing the truth; that ice preserves, encases, but also kills - beautiful though it appears to us, frosting our windows. it cannot be trusted -                                  all sculpture is deadly. and the grass crinkles underfoot. the dog is unsteady, old claws sounding their dissonant rhythms, looking for purchase, not finding any - fear in the blind is a terrible sight, and now it's the girl who's remaining quiet, who knows without thinking                                         a crippled gait is a portent.