Four years ago, in Moab, I had a barber named Norm and a dentist
Named Norm Barber. No barber, no dentist, no Moab now,
Two perished from their lives and the last left in another life. I've lost
My idiotic wrestling match with the mute world that will not
Reward me for chancing, but I still need a haircut and a cleaning.
I need a fortuitous event of such low probability that it might
As well be called a miracle. Or a miracle. I could do
With a miracle or two. In bed, I read late Merwin for warmth and Montale
For cold comfort these last autumn nights, but, as Montale's countryman
And co-generationist, Quasimodo wrote, each waits alone
At earth's core, cored by a ray of light, and suddenly it's dark.
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