song for tired hands

waves of autumn leaves across

pitted brick courtyards

subtle mistake of considering

early november sunlight to be anything
more than itself and she
turns to me, says you can’t spend your
whole looking for answers in the mouths of
dead men, and it sounds like
                                        the truth

sounds like god digging for bones out

along I-88, like pilate selling splinters of
the one true cross

laughter and hope, sure, but what about

the ever-present past?

it was linda’s cancer then

david’s suicide and always the
mumbled wisdom of homeless junkies

it’s the promise of wide open spaces

but even on the warmest afternoons
the fact of winter overwhelms

even in your arms i am

cold and getting colder

am old and getting older

what more can I

give you but the truth?