Goodbye

room 115 is empty and no nameplate

hugs the stall where shavings rest

unstirred for once

and the trail through thayer woods may

be green, but the pine-needles

laugh alone

and george hill's pavement might still be

black but no creaking bike buzzes it

with blowing hair

i guess nothing can ever quite replace

roots so recently upset, and those

holes will yet be visited by ants

for a good many years