Poem by Richie Hofmann






We sleep in his bed

among his silent books.

Though I never knew him,

I’ve spent my life thinking it’s his ghost

I belong to.

                         We pass his books

between us.  We read inscriptions

meant for him.  We record them

dutifully.  Remembering

the blue room of an evening,

I look past the window

the light changes through,

                                             past the boats

with their tied-up sails and canvas covers.

The window shows

the sea as unattainable

                                        and distant as art,

our lovers far away.