I can put her in an airplane; I can put him in a window seat. I can put clouds beneath the wings like animals, like trees, like wave after wave after wave of cornfield in Minnesota, where she's from. No, him. I can have her smiling when she hands him a drink, I can make…
after a painting by Paul Klee A man decides he doesn't want to die, he wants to take a trip. It might be a long trip, he thinks, so I'd better go alone. Or it might be short, so I'll take my wife. They board the sailboat, but at the first port of call his…
i Impeccable softness powders the upturned face of what a meadow meant. Weighed boughs: a load slides down. Muffled squeak. A child's cheek soft beyond belief takes shape beneath my palm, whereupon my whole enormous body cups to a hand whose fingers tease the nap, stroke it to dullness, coax it smooth again. Huge hollowed…
for Gale S. In bitter winter or in hundred degree heat she'd leave our street in red plaid jacket, blue-jay overalls, earflaps cap. In waterproof boots, she took the shortest route, cutting up alleys to the clapboard slaughterhouse. Punching the time clock propped on the pork renderings barrel, she crossed the curing room of hanged…
His beak could open a bottle, and his eyes—when he lifts their soft lids— go on reading something just beyond your shoulder— Blake, maybe, or the Book of Revelation. Never mind that he eats only the black-smocked crickets, and dragonflies if they happen to be out…
Cally was sitting Indian-style on the hood of their banged-up Impala, her jeans unbuttoned halfway down to ease the strain of morning sickness. Earlier in the day it had been foggy and cold, and she was still wrapped in one of Jack's blue flannel shirts, her blond hair falling down over her shoulders. She was…
for R. H. After visits to his hospital bed where sickness slowly played a jazz garden in his head, I watered leaves and stems to a green brilliance, troweled back the influence of weeds, things I'd do for any friend knowing what is temporary. Just days before his release the leaves grew brassy, stems decidedly…
. . .they have passed into the world as abstractions, no one seeing what they are —Georgia O'Keeffe, 1887-1986 1 Late winter light Suppose it comes from the snow blowing all day across your winter road umber with violet shadows Or suppose it comes from some energy farther away that may never be understood to…
In those days-I mean the Forties and Fifties, of course-people were so extremely reticent and modest that the hard questions might not even come to mind, let alone to words. Perhaps if I had discovered all at one blow that Oliver was in truth an Olive. I might have reacted more strongly. But it didn't…
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