"Uncle" "How true that we spend the rest of our lives trying
to recover who we thought we were as children.
Far away, a pond, a jagged circle under the waning sun,
interposed rows of trees interposed a bench swing
with two facing seats in green, where a little scab of paint
comes loose, reveals the white flesh of metal, nothing
else from that era except the tall uncle
whose glass is glint, so that we think he is eyeless and blind."