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He will tell you how each day wears the impress of childhood fields, where he was made to kneel and harvest darkness, then extract its most pure element, which his father used on his mother with rags, like chloroform. This is the most you will get. He has no notch or opening primed for release,…

After all there is still truth and delicacy.     Shall I tell you of the fat man in the darkened theater, or the Russian baritone and his waterbed? No, you want to hear     about the scars, layered, scoring my wrists. The man who still sends me his hair, pungent through the skin     of…

    Everything is so dark under the baby, the table floats legless,     a rectangle of light. Around it the angels are bending their doctoral faces,     the baby unswaddled, undisturbed.     But can you see them? See the kleigs bearing down on the infant, throwing up a stark light     on the angels’ faces,…

“That was in another life,” we say. Everyone knows what that means— another love, in another country. “In another life, when I drank chartreuse, densely herbal, fresh green on my tongue, the light filtering through new rainwater fell on a face, beside a café window. . . .” I hear about another’s other life which…

Gored by the climacteric of his want He stalls above me like an elephant. —Robert Lowell Stalls? I’d have wondered, Has he died at last? Like Anthony’s self-pity: I am dying, Egypt, dying. Like Nelson Rockefeller undoing Happy on his hooker. Like a stuck pig who hasn’t seen the dripping knife, Kemal Pasha’s grunting, grunting,…

You know how tiny kids walk up to you, raise their arms and expect to be picked up—I used to do that; that was me. Me, with my diaper full and my nose half-crusty. I remember being eye to eye with the little doors underneath the kitchen sink—I was a child seriously. I used to…

She reclines, more or less. Try that posture, it’s hardly languor. Her right arm sharp angles. With her left she conceals her ambush. Shoes but not stockings, how sinister. The flower behind her ear is naturally not real, of a piece with the sofa’s drapery. The windows (if any) are shut. This is indoor sin….

1. For five days in October, Carlos died. He could get himself up, up to the last. I’m fine, he said, so I left him alone. I went shopping, but then, when I got home, He was dead, stiff, dressed in the three-piece suit We’d bought at Penney’s for his laying-out, And lying curled like…

When I saw the x-ray of my boy’s broken bones the young doctor held up to the light a fist closed around my heart. Behind us in the gurney he was lost in his pain, betrayed by the world like birds by false spring. The little Mozart piece would be abandoned to summer evenings jangled…