Dennis Haskell: Two Poems

Numbers   Another Christmas, another New Year’s Eve, the world sparks, searching for hope and serene times, but I myself can hardly believe the new number: two thousand and seventeen   just doesn’t seem possible. As a child I calculated how old I would have to be when the century ended—the wild, ridiculous age of 52 would add up to me   and I could never have imagined where I am now, in the country, with our son and your ashes just across the road; there he and I spread their coarse crumbs   of memory, numbly, almost five years…

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