ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS
Sequence: 4
10/5/89
Here
in the house of the old woman
who dies tonight
I am a child again
making new, smaller words
of "miraculous"
searching the upstairs rooms
for ghosts
breathing the cookie air
and shy, so shy
it makes my heart feel new again
for a moment only
until I too large
for this house sit in the chair
she used to sit in--
a crack opens in my heart
and runs to my eyes
which refuse to see anything
that is not in front of them
and I understand at last
how death is kind
individually: it takes away
one person's sorrows