Coach looks at the scoreboard, tries again to press another loss in the backcourt of his brain. The players feel their blood quiet, return to its common wander. The fans shake their heads like tired dogs, put on their coats, hats, gloves, leave the bleachers, head back to what’s always there. The cops shrug, step…
Again, what’s the theme?” my friend, the painter Stephen Henriques, asked. We had just enjoyed a tasty sidewalk lunch blocks from his studio in San Francisco’s Richmond District. That we should be meeting to choose from his recent work a cover for this issue of Ploughshares seemed natural. Two books of mine — Things Ain’t…
She is all definition, the woman, her summer Dress pleated with sweat. In the firm prow of her belly, in the hold Her cargo settles In, as if to stay. When it comes she will be flat Which is herself again, Another. Outside dry grasses nudge each other as if to say Lie still again,…
The gym is closed, locked for the night. Through the windows, a quiet beam from the streetlights lies across center court. The darkness wraps itself around the trophies, lies softly on the coach’s desk, settles in the corners. A few mice scratch under the stands, at the door of the concession booth. The night wind…
In heaven there is no beer. That’s why: There was a bar outside of Pigeon Forge, crawled back onto a flat space hanging off its mountain, where someone, seemingly inspired by great forces, had seen the fiction of her body, and in tribute rendered it fantastically, overwhelmingly, in fluorescent paints across the entirety of the…
Everybody knew what you were going to do before you did it. You couldn’t go out without encountering Some version of yourself, oh, years old You thought you had let go of, Like that narrow hall, the row of frames Contiguous along the wall, you walk down, walk down. Look, here are crows the…
The poetry club in Jean’s neighborhood scheduled readings of new works every Wednesday in the basement of a popular restaurant, The Two Bruce Café. A surprising lot of people showed up regularly to hear and then critique the week’s artistic efforts, and the two lawyers named Bruce who owned the place felt rewarded because the…
One glimpse—that’s all, then in no time flat, Coyote’s beguiled, spit-shine kempt: cologne-scented singer, bouquet-bringer, acrobatic twister into arabesques: What can I change? What’s the sure-fire ingredient? How many howls make a billet-doux? Good luck, sings the swan-white moon, good luck and let me know— No desert…
…these blinds give people control over light; they let the outside in and still allow a feeling of privacy in a glassed room. —from a brochure on window treatments you say what I remember didn’t happen and hanging the blinds I admit my dreams swerve from rippled instants to serial repeats I think about the…
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