Dislocation
I have about a thousand, not a million, words to spill out tonight, and I can't figure out how to put them in order. And unfortunately you have to put words in order to find meaning. All my happy talk wherever on the Web tonight, bogus and useless. We're closing on midnight local, so here's the end of Updike's "Hospital." Full poem here. Bedtime.
My wife of thirty years is on the phone.
I get a busy signal, and I know
she's in her grief and needs to organize
consulting friends. But me, I need her voice;
her body is the only locus where
my desolation bumps against its end.
