Stephen Kuusisto, Letters to Borges

Some days I wake to sadness, an arthritic thing, cerebral, black as iodine.

Coffee, a south facing window, two stray dogs under my apple trees.

I love you my dear; there is a cradle on my brow for you—

I would go to some church if I could find one,

To climb into the pulley hands of God,

What else? Sometimes I wake and listen.

I hear the footsteps of neighboring children

As they walk to the bus stop, their low conversations.

Even they are restless, directed against

Themselves, like scientists of imagination,

Testing every step, fate, no fate…


Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

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