#75 Gazing


#75 Gazing
2002 – 14 x 14 edition of 27 – $300
The poem tells it like it is. I am and always have been a gazer.

Sitting on the couch
in the warm nightie
Hannah gave me for Christmas,
I watch you jam your legs
into your jeans,
tug on your boots,
tromp through the snow,
because of the way the light
lands on the ice floats.

The lake heaves and shrugs
like an animal,
trying to shake off
what wants to pin her down.
Mid January now
and she is not locked in.
I root for her
and you, standing
fixed above the bay.

“What are you doing?”
I would ask at the beginning,
poking through your trance.
“I’m gazing” you would say,
as if it were your job
to memorize the world.

You haven’t taken
your gloves or hat.
That increment of time
could cost the perfect
slant of light.
Now something else
has caught your eye.
You head off down the path.
Who knows how long
you will be gone now.

For thirty years
I’ve watched the way
you watch the world,
as if you were blind
in some past life
and must make up for it,
as if every morning
you’d been given back
your sight,
as if they’d just unwrapped
the bandages.