I'm drinking the third mug of Folgers
at 3.20 am, and "working on poetry"
by reading it: Dylan Thomas, Marilyn Hacker,
and you. Often I wish you were more prolific
of poems and e-mails, but your silences
make me cherish your words all the more:
words that live, that gladden and fortify,
pure as vespers at candle-lit St Ann's,
wiser than politicians, kinder than a blanket
knitted over long months by a loved one's hands,
calm as a cloister in this loud leap-year.