Skip to main content

Ron Smith


Henry James and the Future of Photography

Summer 1988 | Poetry

My friend has not called. I send her poems.
She says she likes them,
though they tell too much about farm life,
too little about me.
When I visit her in the summer, she says
she hates her job, she'd like
for me to live closer, that she's afraid of death,
of the knotting of her hands.