From Anthony Piccione's The Guests at the Gate, from BOA.
It's a good stubbly face, tightening with pain.
He's sprawled over the chair, older than I am,
and seems always to know things oddly,
from the back woods farm he grew up on,
down quarry country, he tells me.
He turns away, blowing his nose.
Anything leaves tracks leaves a story,
he says sideways, opening the handkerchief.
See? Woodstove needs cleaned soon.
Cigarettes'll kill you long before you quit,
and there's way too much dust on those beams.
Jabbing at the bright flecks and fibers
spread out in his hand like alphabets,
he looks at me, suddenly grinning.
Imagination is just a remembering,
from the other side, of course.