previous | next
 
 
 

BEATTIE IS THREE
At the top of the stairs
I ask for her hand.  O.K.
She gives it to me.
How her fist fits my palm,
A bunch of consolation.
We take our time
Down the steep carpetway
As I wish silently
That the stairs were endless.


Editor's Note: Audio recording: Poetry International Festival, Rotterdam, 1983.