My earlier collections of verse were invariably divided into sec- tions—into sequences, that is—where geography or subject matter gave a unity to each section and a title set it off against its neighbours. The whole effect, or so I hoped, would add up to one of variety within unity, the unity proceeding from tone and…
Acrylic resin paint (Magna) on canvas The eye is watching you, the evil eye red-rimmed as the lipsticked lips of Thirties starlets sucks you in, in, in the quicksand path to sleep, lost Dante touring the circles. You have discovered the first “black hole.” Hesitating, hovering, you cannot decide: to enter the gravity of the…
A new student-Stephanie Adams-stopped by Professor O'Reilly's office that day, and what she wanted him to do was preposterous. She was a striking, blond-haired girl with large eyes, a small, rather prim mouth, and a bright, nervous manner. What she hoped to persuade him to do would ordinarily have been easy to provide: a recommendation…
Harm soup simmers on each body's woodstove where gelatin soaks from shinbones and combines with effluence from cabbages of loss to build gray froth. Nouns of perpetual accumulation sip woe three times a day from a wooden spoon as machines doze in the separated hayfield. There are no shadows in this blue country. Woe's nutriment…
IV. Finding Her These poems are from the final section of a book called Death Tractates, which is a sequence of poems written after the sudden death of my closest female mentor. This work interrupted the writing of another book. Bright Existence, and now stands by itself. Many of the poems have rather abstract titles….
Talking and joking late at night: the rain pocks the air conditioner, blocking the traffic so the apartment remains like a lakeside cave we've come home to after the performance, as if we are docking, while fooling around, but not falling out, a rowboat to its place, and scampering home to the stone stools we…
Gibbon, Tacitus, and Thucydides fished from a rowboat while it rained oysters. “Look,” said Tacitus, “it's pouring Rome's grief on my temple.” “No,” said Gibbon: “Phyllis has emigrated,” History takes correction from immaculate leopards who remain alive—but history retains nothing: it stuffs fact stew into its face, vomits, and gorges again, as the guitarist plays…
—So the soul had known it all along, the soul knew when it was taken: first it filled with light and then it went sideways, through boxes of radiance; you wanted her to look your way but she couldn't; for the bride can't just stop being the bride once the forward exit has begun, going…
Put corn on the stove, don't burn the chops, sign all letters “love,” keep spotless above, clean up what drops. Put all knives away, you never know. Car in the driveway, wait in the doorway, your prayer here below unanswered again: he has not died. This man of men throws good food in the sink,…
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