later years

John Martone

Tufo
2019
 later years
Copyright © 2019 John Martone
Tufo
johnmartone@gmail.com
later years
vestigia sunt

— Bonaventure
as if we weren’t
already weightless
autumn

~5~
reaching out —
an olive hand
another fresco

~6~
sparrow
I’m still learning Latin

my dream as well a garden toad

~7~
going all day
without my glasses
practice

feels like —
an empty bottle’s
inner light

~8~
small as
they are

basil
flowers

pull my
80

kilos
closer

~9~
outside the nursing home
nothing’s
going to happen

it’s one thought

after another —

look how
the waves break

~ 10 ~
 Arthur Dove
and Helen Torr

a single
room

where they
could

paint
the sea

~ 11 ~
Aeneas
bore his father

his father the gods

myself a fig tree

~ 12 ~
stone walls
in fall —

he unfolds
a blanket

take out
my parka

here is
an inchworm

~ 13 ~
sun returns
after two days rain
the quilt’s largest patch

agèd faces and shoes

in line for communion
a space for me

~ 14 ~
 overgrown

wild grape bindweed

and morning glories slowly
pull down my fence

~ 15 ~
 out of nowhere
thought pops up
touch-me-nots

basil plants sallow

the old man
losing weight

~ 16 ~
all those dews a caterpillar

~ 17 ~
Heraclitus’
contemplation —
caterpillar

caterpillar —
how suddenly

those Roman columns fell

at Posilippo

~ 18 ~
caterpillar
farewell
drawn out

tomorrow —
the cocoon

~ 19 ~
looking for
the real thing

getting lost
in a guidebook

~ 20 ~
something I can’t see
eating holes in turnip greens
it’s a big sky

closing in
on the light
inside-out

~ 21 ~
fall sun shaft
full of wings
I can’t see

garden nimbus
a cloud of mites

~ 22 ~
five-gallon pot
for washing tomatoes
or two blue shirts

~ 23 ~
Pop
— but I never called him Pop

Mom
who felt my forehead

night settles
around the house
her cedar chest

~ 24 ~
God knows it’s only baby talk

~ 25 ~
the last basil stems
an old man's
bony legs

draughtsman

evermore
exact till

the line’s too

fine to see

~ 26 ~
stringing figs
how far
heaven

~ 27 ~
a snail shell
reminds you
of the friend

you didn’t
have to be

here you are

it will be

as if you
never were

~ 28 ~
bilingual
now and then

~ 29 ~
many names —
­
mailbox
under the olives

opened at dawn
the water tap
drowning silence

~ 30 ~
 five-foot eight
lemon tree —
such thorns!

under the walnut

a father holding his child
holding a walnut

~ 31 ~
 dawn the color of bread being broken

the dew
lying in bed with eyes shut still I study the dew

~ 32 ~
a cup
placed on its saucer
maple leaves falling

~ 33 ~
the longest grief
bulrushes twice our height
then the shore

~ 34 ~
all the strangers
grown old in
your hometown

after the graveyard

white boats moored in rows

~ 35 ~
hosing the muck
from your shoes
you see your face

~ 36 ~
snow falling
all the dark morning tries
to write his name

~ 37 ~
hunched over
in the ruins of a house
writing my name

landscape with trees

and dwellings

the rise and fall

of cursive letters

~ 38 ~
remembering how
to write his name
sibylline leaves

~ 39 ~
 the first letter
always hardest
writing my name

writing my name
hard enough —
God’s are numberless

~ 40 ~
Gerry Wensinger
Bob Lax — I love
how they sign

the radio handbook’s

dated schematics
his name in cursive

~ 41 ~
another “dream house”

middle of nowhere
mice in the kitchen

sparrow’s nest
in the doorless closet

~ 42 ~
patching stucco
winter sky
the same color

~ 43 ~
 bluer than
the gas flame
jay at her door

the long struggle —

a china cup and saucer
outlast him

~ 44 ~
his death-day
hand-me-down
cardigan

without a word
Christmas cactus
right on time

~ 45 ~
the long
branch
answers

a small
bird’s
lighting

~ 46 ~
looking offshore —
sometimes
we surface

~ 47 ~
 winter rain
mid-continent
a cold sea stalls

planetary fragment —
I circle the block
until I forget

~ 48 ~
winter solstice —
sunflower sprouts
under the cloth

~ 49 ~
a jar of olives
on the table
no one’s home

tinnitus
my winter room

~ 50 ~
landscape
the windmill
with no sails

~ 51 ~
 featherbed hung
over a sill —
one of many windows

transformed
in the twinkling of an eye
like everyone else

~ 52 ~
the road back —
light from a house

thought
abandoned

hoarfrost —
the sparrow’s crumbs
dull white

~ 53 ~
la terra promessa will fill my mouth

~ 54 ~
cave
where Francis slept

the back of
my eye

I eat my bread
among the stones

where he preached
to the birds

~ 55 ~
I kiss the rock face
surprised how the sun
has warmed it

~ 56 ~
wearing your late
father’s clothes

how did you

think you’d look?

~ 57 ~
the winter shoreline’s
lime-white cottages
empty shells

in a winter field’s chaff I’ve lost the thread

~ 58 ~
 winter
the ivy
holds on

amaryllis
only the words you need to see

~ 59 ~
the pine tree felled
it’s an empty light

~ 60 ~
 Christmas 2018

o be still
we’re stained glass
then see-through

winter-bright
a short day
to clean by

~ 61 ~
 sesame seeds
around a sweetness
years ago

long loaves
in paper sleeves above
a boy with his coins

~ 62 ~
little sister
by the hand
to shoe store

~ 63 ~
 house swept
and table set
a breath

a small white room

when the walls
fall away

~ 64 ~
blue pajamas
dark as
your suit

~ 65 ~
dictionary
wherever

you place
your finger

~ 66 ~
surrounded by books
and not one word

~ 67 ~
the toll
a laundromat at the edge of town

~ 68 ~
 from the Italian

they don’t recount

the prodigal son’s
later years

~ 69 ~
youctidn'
luve to be

heceyouue
it will be

u ifyou
uettecwere