Here in purgatory bare ground is visible, except in shady places where snow prevails. Still, each day sees the restoration of another animal: a sparrow, just now a sleepy wasp; and, at twilight, the skunk pokes out of the den, anxious for mates and meals. . . . On the floor of the woodshed the…
If only I could tell you how wildness-shows the space between us and the green world; how an island is the same island with our presence, but with that presence we lose some hope of seeing, say, a horse, or the dead gnarled limbs of an oak sunk in sand. Edward Weston saw it in…
Mom says she won’t; we’ll have to clean them, though she used to do it when I fished with dad. Dad’s illness wore her down; I think she felt relief after he died, and didn’t mourn him long enough before she married Sam. I know there is an art to cleaning fish. In ancient times,…
In what heaven or hell do you, Bob, booze? If heaven, there’s gin sempiternal, you wake on a cloud press a button and an angel comes in with an enchanting tinkle or, if you’re allowed in the Elysian Fields (why not? you boozed an epic amount), you’ll wander till you find that stream of gin,…
Twist away the gates of steel — Devo O wide blossom-splashed private drives Along which sullen mouthed little guys In motorized surreys Ride shotgun over spectacular philodendra! O paradise of zombies! O terminal antipathy to twist And shout! O hotel sized garages Inside which smoothly tooled imported motors Purr like big pussies under long polished…
she came. i went. i walked. i saw. she sang. she spat. i came. she ran. she spoke. i climbed. she left. i bloomed. i walked. she ran. i laughed. she cried. she played. i woke. she groaned. i sang. she gasped. i shrieked. she yelped. i barked. she growled. i moved. she sat. she…
I. Happy we when our footnote tells us “Hercules was a legendary hero of ancient Greece.” I had supposed him Lord of the Admiralty President of IBM the Man Who Made the Bomb latest sensation in the rock constellation a Dior creation a Mafia bum. II. Happy the college kid who can read clonked on…
The quest for winter sunshine washes The gasping survivor up on the shore Much that’s done isn’t meant Much that’s meant isn’t done I take it up & at the beck & call Of some remote agency I stick it in & when it’s over I pull it out again Like the bloody assegai of…
June 1976 I had an argument five summers ago, with Mary Kisataose. We argued in her village, which was a day’s walk. This argument . . . it was about a bee. What happened was this. We were sitting with children, at a table of hers. She had a jar of jam from the Hudson…
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