Regrets from Abroad

There is so much to say I feel little ability to say
anything. Not that there is no interest.
Beaches, dislocation, the poem about the
blackbird, all of this is of interest. The years
required to claim residence. The couple
on Dr. Phil who have written in asking for help.
What fresh help is this? I married a man
who walks the seawall watching for blue-bottles
as I swim. Sickness is nothing but a collection
of memories, how they surge and fling,
how they inhabit.
Much is accumulated though not in our honour.
I am tired of going. Maybe the only there
is the final there. It begins to look like sleep,
I dream a man sweeps me off my feet
and disappoints. Most nights we forget the argument
but not always.

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