She's gone again in the Mardi Gras parade and you're home, killing time on the front steps, examining the beer can in your hands. Apotheosis of nothing. What she throws at you this time hardly worth the sequinned stars in her garter: ”You know how it is. Bright lights, music, how they told us for…
There was one river then. No one had thumbs. Even the tiger grew green in her skin. We basked and we sang in the general light. Someone noticed: stars circle, sun rises and rises, moon's belly swells fresh. And there by the lake's reeds she told us with signs bury me. Ash fell. The trees…
His watch chain looped golden nowhere In air of the mill town. Shrubbery, Head-high bubbles leafily guarding recollection — Up steps to the parlor and the puzzle — Materialized uncertainly, in connection with The streets as I remembered. German Shepherds now only dog-sized, not Polar bear monuments half out of National Geographic Frisked the one…
Through the clotted street and down the alley to the station, the halting rhythm of the bus disrupts her dream and makes the broad blond fields of grain yield to an agitated harbor, whales nuzzling flank to flank. Now the bus settles in its gate. She wakes, smoothes her stockings, gathers her packages, the stunned…
No huckster. She wakes in her earthworks enraged. A bush burns. She grizzles. The whole world turns ash and she gladdens. Mutterous rumbles: beware, soil, repent. She chivvies, nights, digs locks tenacious great jaws in the lair of her skull. She consumes. She maintains her autochthonous visions. There in the roots — look, see what…
Still in sleeping bags, the promised delivery only words as usual, our lives upside down, we are transients lost in thirteen rooms built by a judge who died. The landlord says they mean no harm, the bats, and still I wake at the shrill whistling, the flutter overhead. I fumble to a tall window open…
Someone is late, I'm waiting. The hot smell of rain on the street brings you close, now that you are of little use and gone. Two boys throw yellow and blue balloons. Distended with water they swag down the air, plop into the boys' open hands. This will be summer to them, in Palo Alto…
Good Professor, I’m glad you weren’t my father! The little gods and demons fall in across your desk like infantry — Egyptian, Greek, Etruscan toys, spanning two millennia. Some wear hats with horns, others horned helmets. Athletic satyrs and jackal-headed women stand uniformly muscular. The old in robes, larger, watch us, smiling, satisfied they’ve outlived…
I’d seen it only once, the scar I told my childhood friends my father got at war. A jagged scrawl, like a hurt remark, a lost island on his thigh. He never told me if a woman’s kiss left its imprint there, or if it caused him pain when strangers stopped to stare. But when…
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