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Spring rain. Inklings, earthlings, wet present     The sequence of events, that’s what’s best, when the clots participles and shivers before red sun and cicadas     dissolve as from the drugs . . . or in your city, Santoria, snow cones, dubbed syllables     to hear the names, to have the characters cast down The…

My father, an American, was singing in dialect over the grave of my great-grandmother. The sun was setting. The country was in another war. My mother was planting nasturtiums over Nonna’s grave. Her green skirt was shorter than the grass. A northern shrike was piercing a songbird on a thorn of barbed wire. The old…

We don’t want to be shown, in photographs sent home, What the poet saw that summer, that evening In the mountains with the shepherds, that unspoiled Landscape with its caves and weathered ruins, Nor to be retold, in long scribbled letters After the wine was drunk, drunken revelations Of the shepherds’ joys and troubles, no…

“Thy absence overflows the rose” —Hart Crane Because from the humid bed of August the afternoon held its blue arm out to me, I stood on a hill in Garretsville, Ohio at the headstone for Hart Crane— one shared by Clarence Crane, his father. As clouds removed all color from the sky, their shadows clarified…

Newlyweds, up at the Del Mar station, saw the woman stumble & fall, & ran back to pull her to safety, the train bearing down. For a thousand feet north of the point of impact, investigators found parts of a briefcase, sketches of gowns, a low-heeled black shoe. From the White House, the President screaming…

We swept up everything in sight: gobbled up Soutines, Bonnards Modiglianis. Lenny snagged Monet’s boat studio. Jim seized that mauve felicity of creamy lovers: Le Bonheur de Vivre. I took that terrifying Van Gogh nude, horrific & farouche, all poverty & pubic hair & suffering. Together after all those years—three hebephrenic & disheveled antiquarian collectors…