The Turtles On The Galapagos

There's no doubt winter is coming.  I see

My London Fog jacket is made in China.

The fall is like a bare writing desk.

The ashtray outside my window

Has no leaves, and Ignatow is gone. . . .

But my pen still moves freely

On this paper.  And Vera, where is she?

In a nursing home in Newtonville.

Lamplight shines on the floor boards.

No response.  Can I read anything I want

Now, how about Stalingrad?  Go ahead.

Those I am dear to me, those dear to me . . .

I can stand and let my palms sweep

Up over my stomach furnace-

You know, the pot-bellied stove

The Taoists talk about.  And maybe

A plume of energy does climb,

As they say, up the spine.  The turtles

On the Galapagos don't feel old.

They breathe only once a minute.