It is Spring Already you relax in a cotton skirt Passing thru the mountains is a strong feeling Fields plowed, new wood split, the hawk floating Puffs of softwood in the grey hills A river runs with snowmelting A small bridge neatly built to get by There is a pleasure in such places The old…
Odd — to watch you drive off with your kind, redhaired boyfriend just as two girls in braids go by on ponies down the sunny street, laughing at nothing at all, their clip-clop sound the same my pipe makes, knocking the ash from its empty bowl.
An old woman likes to melt her husband. She puts him in a melting device, and he pours out the other end in a hot bloody syrup, which she catches in a series of little husband molds. What splatters on the floor the dog licks up. When they have set she has seventeen little husbands….
There is nothing so scary about grasshoppers sharpening scythes. But when the troll’s flea whispers, be careful.
March comes and water moves The river, ponds, brooks open On snowshoes this is the last week You’ll hike down these banks of Rotten snow, the last week bridges Of ice will be there to criss-cross Down stream, the last week the Deer carcass will be pinned between Rocks and white water spray Thru the…
My daughter gives me her treasure, a stone-glass bead. And I give her my treasure — I accept her stone-glass bead.
A woman prepared a mouse for her husband’s dinner, roasting it with a blueberry in its mouth. At table he uses a dentist’s pick and a surgeon’s scalpel, bending over the tiny roastling with a jeweler’s loupe . . . Twenty years of this: curried mouse, garlic and butter mouse, mouse sauteed in its…
The front a mirror. The back a picture of the Garden of Eden. A strange find of the old master of glass.
This lake is not a concept but the home of fishes. Slowly the ducks go by. The Christ is not a concept but one of these ducks. Which one?
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