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Too conscious of our need for pillows, he rises from bed to walk the street. No need, he thinks, for underwear or other gauze to dress his soul. Because he is alone this late at night we can forgive his need for walking out beyond his robe. He is that near to seeing himself as…
Sono sempre d'avviso che Shakespeare fosse una cooperativa. Che per le buffonate si serviva di cerretani pari a lui nel genio ma incuranti di tutto fuorché dei soldi. Non può ingoiare troppo la sopravvivenza. A volte digerisce un plotone, tale altra distilla poche sillabe e butta un monumento nel secchio dei rifiuti. Produce come i…
Since you read Stendhal, Flaubert, De Musset, Isola Bella seemed a hazy dream: Ramparts of gardens rising out of water, Water nymphs stunned into statuary, Grottos where walls of pebbles and mortar Formed sea shells and sea creatures, Rooms with mandolins and violas d'amores, Balustrades where assignations were made With a nod, a wink, the…
but about death and women I've never known enough to really say, to help myself, to resolve, define, understand, to hear the voices crying, muttering, cursing in their endless soliloquy the subjectless theme of women, death, the source of all anxiety, the root I need to see, inspect, touch, Henderson lay his hand on the…
Seventy degrees on the winter solstice, a yule moon sifting through ragged clouds into the undersides of trees —lamplit, pearly gray—like the bellies of huge snails whose branchy horns test whatever it is the winter birds sail in on—or, not birds, but the wings we were meant to put on later that same night—I knew…
He kept the maps. They'd had a cardboard Kahlua box of maps, forest service maps, topo maps, road maps, some of them from the early Sixties when his parents had taken him and his brothers on road trips in the summers. She had to admit they were mostly his maps, though she'd grown to love…
My house full of chrysanthemums trying to continue. They stand in dry dirt, expecting something of me, sun or shade, I don't know which. If I knew enough about life to find a good place for them they'd come back again. How brave. The refrigerator's full of eggs, slick and mottled. Mute as violets. A…
Lying full-length in a porcelain bathtub in Billings, Montana, lit shadows of amoeboid forms feeling their way across my breasts, the day replaying its life as though near death: the naked body of my lover's daughter picking her steps along the rim of the lake, a goddess of the heat and sage; the sudden arising…
Skin deep, you son of a bitch, I thought, no more—but the impure Tip of his needle tracked its dance. The snake between the ribs, Anchor, tiger, the daggered heart, memento mori of the skull: In the heat of the body's refusal, I had to choose among images. Beyond the window, awl-points…
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