To take, like water, whatever shape you flow through, fill, or rest in. And to choose that shape. * As: Brian, become a gangster, six feet from my face. Voice no longer a caress but a sharpened projection, belly a ram in a buttoned vest. The whole body shows the thing done: goat-song…
None of us would have admitted having sentiments or fears, but we had to have the right loafers, wide belt, sober tie, a madras jacket, hair just too long, and a studied slouch, suggesting bored intelligence and the athlete’s effortless grace. It was 1967, part and not part of what’s called now, with more than…
1. You’d brought a hand-carved toy, a wooden ring Tied by a thong of leather to a stick And demonstrated with a stab, one quick Thrust through its circle. Shaken by the thing, My gaze slid from your freshman composition Down to your sandals and enameled toes. Come on, you said, let’s cut out—what’s to…
That rat’s too smart to come to the rows of crumbs I sowed by the pond, he has the patience of true hunger, he’ll wait me out with the same tenacity I had as a child, hungry to grow strong enough to escape the nunnery without being caught. I loved the rats…
If I loved him—I loved him— I cannot remember the whole middle part where the gods never go, they’d be bored. Of the beginning—how many poems to describe his buoyancy, and gaze, and hands— how many times can the act of whispering together be a remonstrance to the underworld? And the end is completely remembered—…
The phones, the long-distance phones are ringing. The satellite phone from the field camp in Kosovo. The lawyer’s phone in a complex in Palo Alto. The car phone conveying a child to baseball practice. In this way the siblings converse and condole much as the now-vanished Carolina parakeets with their sunflower-yellow heads and radiant green…
Outside of town, back on that one country lane, they work down into the ground, pieces of cracked road lie to the sides, small black boulders. Deep brown earth makes a rim around the great opening, a moist lip. Machinery sits on each side, patient yellow creatures. Lights are hung, making the men’s uniforms a…
Lumber me up, my licky bloke, my one so far unseen, my limbered timber boy. What luck to bucky suck till sated, luminous tuneful body to play on, even now long play me on. I hanker for the slow bang of my love, his howl and cheek, shebang, the flaming oh’s of his moany mouth….
When you stood up and walked past the rows of desks and windows, seeing the yellow and green trees you had already admired, praising even the door where you stood before entering, imagining yourself reading passages of sin or love or the earth or moon’s ashen birth— what amazement you must have felt later, looking…
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