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Female in the afterlife, Rimbaud, photographed sits, beautiful in the waste (a dress, a chair a tent among junked cars). How lovely the feminine muscles of his arms But he is relaxed. No longer does a human soul, like a shining noose, trail from heaven (still, absentmindedly, he reaches…
As the floor tilts, the hanging lamp dangles at an odd slant toward the kitchen's star of-Bethlehem walls and I know the stillness, the belligerent pace, the public shadows on our lawn and the way she stood at the edge of the orchard, transparent in her nightdress as the bus crept up the drive. The…
As the soft green of moss covers the gnarled roots of an old banyan, so evening creeps over the folds of my grandparents. Veiled by the dusk from the hurting brilliance of a young world, they sit in undisturbed stillness on garden chairs, side by side. Many who come to see their son, or their…
Ohhhhhhhhh—I've forgotten the tickets! A cry of distress rises in the blue Honda plodding over a two-lane New Hampshire highway, wedged between the curves of the road and the hard curves of the RVs refusing to move their metal bulk aside. We're halfway there but it would be hours to go home again. We tell…
The night was almost too long to bear. Then there was evidence of mercy—a passing car— milky air—and I could see dry walls & gravel on the way to a highway Atlantic for its grays. Loss is the fulfillment of the Law. Space collected on a long line. I was eliminated as a locus of…
Of all the questions I have been lucky enough to ask, the riskiest, & the one most laughable, wants to know whose feelings are just like my own. Which could easily be a way of asking whose are not. And worse, some feelings, some of my feelings, are like those soft scented brushes flourished hastily…
What's Hitchcock up to in this bad movie? The eerie music rises to crescendo Scaring me before there's any danger. A circular staircase spirals into shadow. My heart starts pounding at his grisly tricks— A gunman's silhouette, a mysterious key, A creaking blind, darkness, unknown steps, A cowardly tramp who only wants to flee And…
The long white line of light the moon has drawn across the dark has worn it down, like any chalk. By now it floats above the nighttime Earth too tired to revise—so this might finally explain our vast imperfect world. But all that's poetical fancy, isn't it? —doodah and piffle and Fabergé eggs. What I…
What draws us to poetry in our early, inarticulate years? Answers to the question must vary. From the days when, as a child, I passively absorbed poetry from songs and hymns and when, as an adolescent, I tried to cobble together my own verses, nudged onto paper in imitation of poems from books, I recall…
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