While Three stacks sand on the tide wall. The welcome wagon dropped them here, between tours of the mudflats, between old men lining up shots of birds on one leg. Two says, It’s always been almost exactly like this, hasn’t it?, and Three misses what a dozen of us couldn’t fail to catch. The path…
Even the night suffers where it came from. And not until the shadows of mimosas gather over the creek, like large moth wings, un- spoken, will stars recover. You see, we both want the same thing. Like a dibble piercing the earth, turning over the moist sod, it is…
I took a pin to my eyes and broke the surface tension and scooped out the machinery that so faithfully pictured what surrounds and refuses to wake us I sewed shut the lids singing I watched the sun rise with my brain and my skin and my useless pin and I fell from that terrible…
Paul Muldoon, Poems 1968-1998, poems: A comprehensive selection from Muldoon’s eight books of poetry, this brilliant volume presents an astonishing range of moods and subjects, showing a poet reinventing himself at every turn. (FSG)
There’s no such thing as a rich sex life. Sex is poor. But sex isn’t the only thing That’s poor. Black-eyed Susans and purple loosestrife For instance haven’t got a prayer. The ring She wears causes a certain Platonic sting Like bonsai trees, which make me claustrophobic. Seeing her without it could make the angels…
An 1804 edition in which 1 Kings 8:19 reads ‘But thy son that shall come forth out of thy lions’ instead of ‘loins’ Empires are my premise. Archilochos my schoolchair. More was my first word and that means Rome. Denotation is detonation, be careful. As car fuel: at home in the anger, at home on…
They took me to see the Emu of wonder eat out of a sack. They took me to see the Pronghorn pronking endlessly. They took me to see the White Hart at night, lit by headlights. I hiked to the top of the falls to see the Coho surrender. I heard the Pekinese suffering behind…
Leaves came and went as men warred over the shape of the table— peace would be talked in Paris, where Ho Chi Minh had been young once, hungry and hunted. Veteran of another war, my father wanted no squabbles at the supper table. What shape should it take to insure that we were out of…
Mothlike, he makes the swallow look slow, separating his flight-feathers as fingers, closing the trailing edge of his wings between beats, and his lyre-shaped tail, from his old, cupped nest of leaves to his later chosen, true, domed nest of reeds. Often he merges with bark of fallen log and insect-haunted least willow, the song…
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