the things I know now I see it in him: the I-must-hide-the-fat-look as he stares at himself reflected in glass, his oncoming paunch and the question he can't ask - how much time is there left? + my skillet's a wonder sleek pan, a flat steel with silvery shine polished in water under my hands, wire brush scarring its metal in fine well-scored lines those built up black corners, that will not come clean, are the only sure sign of the use I have made + the cans are growing in our garage - mostly coke, ginger ale - in large plastic bags, black with cinched yellow ties. I forget how much each one may be worth. a nickel? a dime? not much more than that, but with so many I'm sure it adds up to enough money for some future treat - for myself? yes, but I'm not inclined to liquidate yet. until then it's just another savings account + it seems you can do nicely with much less than you have. for example take kidneys - take all but a third and that's enough for the fluids your body might need, or might crave but at some tipping point there's no hope anymore. this condition is called chronic renal failure and they tell me no one does transplants at this hospital.

I've dropped the bleu cheese dip Now its just carrots, their sweet crunch of emptiness, the crackle they make when I bite into them. I always feel something's not right, that something is missing but then, in an hour, my belly reminds me when it takes the shape of a rounded Biafran from sometime in the seventies, the same ugly distention. They had nothing to eat - poor starving babies - and I can eat nothing without it affecting me. Well, it's not the same thing, of course - I know this is only the first circle of suffering. + He was small, but the hair was all large, wavy dark curls - clearly an arab. The daughter dressed like all of her peers in denim jeans and and a tee with its cutaway sleeves, her small pony tail tied up behind her, but the mother was still a faithful observer: a scarf tightly wrapped, showing only her face and its slight, timid gestures. Their eyes, deepest brown, filled up the room as their voices, all whispers and soft tones, tried to hide what they saw. Even the boy, no more than four. + One has to be precise when cleaning a bathroom. First take everything from the counter and, with a wipe, remove all the dust. Spray on a cleaner, something bound to be toxic to germs and dust mites, any leftover viruses. While it's doing its work, move to the toilet bowl, squeeze out the product designed to eradicate all the rank fungus that's been gowing so long. Then windex the mirror, and make sure you squeek off the blue alcohol mist one paper towel at a time. Don't forget: wear a mask, and rubber gloves are a must to protect yourself from the filth. + I read this essay about difficult poems, how to read them without too much frustration, too much self-doubt. It wasn't clear to me whether he was being satirical but, nonetheless, I took it to heart. And how could I not, for it's well known that those are all that I write. + The world outside is never as pretty as after a rainstorm, clouds still in the sky, but now starting to dissipate, with sunlight in rays frosting the trees. The grass is as green as the green that's in Ireland and the flower blooms, wet, glisten their charms. Too soon it's all spoiled when the lawnmowers come. + I've tried to imagine bombs blasting away buildings, the smell of burnt flesh and hot asphalt, smoke and particulates - but I can't. My explosions have always been fireworks, my bullets, aimed at inanimate targets. My violence has always been personal - a man with a fist, or sharp pointed boots kicking my head and the ribs in my chest. All of my terrorists have shown themselves first. + People will ask: What's the connection? What's the point of all this? And most times they don't speak so direct, but I hear each pause and each silence. I'm ashamed I can't tell them. Ashamed I can't speak about what it is that I know: Here, in these fingers, healed but mishappen. Here, in gray hairs on my wrists and my arms. Here, in these scars that circle my navel, and ring round my right ear. They still want an old dog's laboured breathing, a purposeful panting, somehow signaling Spring.

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.

the song of loss and hope dogwood trees snow white and pink their petals pushed down to the grass which cannot help but feel their weight the dog herself cannot stand up, because a breeze would bring collapse beneath the clouds in half-sunlight for when the rain's like slantwise knives, like rusting grates, like pain enough the curtain's drawn against the sight and no one watches what they want when night forgets to bring the stars and dusk broods long on city streets a penny please, a penny sir! she shouts, she stops, she drags herself when passing ears have lost their youth distraction holds them all in place - the girl, the dog, the rained on night are left behind to seek themselves to find the grass or something else which cannot speak or hurt or spill a drop of water from the well