It becomes cold and colder the year has no color in it little Dimitri plays the piano until his fingers stiffen with cold. Cold in the line waiting for bread six hours make us patient thin animals waiting as though bread is an unfamiliar food a kind of miracle we hardly expect. We give it…
MASTHEAD Directors DeWitt Henry Peter O'Malley Coordinating Editor for This Issue Joyce Peseroff Managing Editor Joyce Peseroff CONTRIBUTORS FRANK BIDART'S note on Ralph Hamilton first appeared as part of the Institute of Contemporary Art's show, "Boston Collects Boston." His most recent book is The Book Of The Body (Farrar, Straus & Giroux). ROBERT BLY'S new…
He pushed across the street to where she waited. If this was love, it was the other kind, not any different from what he’d known. For her part, she never thought of it as love, just one person helping another move some household things from one room to another cold room in bad weather. She…
To whom it should concern: Lucky for me you're not the worrying sort. Lucky for you I don't write often, considering the miseries I'm heir(ess) to. Also my terror and loss. What I need to know is, Where do I/we stand? Grammar and punctuation aside – for I have not for-gotten those shockwaves you suffer…
— for J.H.W. The house sits like a hat too small for the bald hill newly scraped and planted with tentative grass. In the picture you took to ponder, to decide whether to buy, the poplar that plumes the ground like a giant swaying peacock feather is almost invisible, a sprouting barely alive. Scotch pine…
You call them dragonflies But you come from another country Of snow and unions, without a summer Worth the name. I passed my childhood Picking them off the wire fence That kept my father’s junkyard From my mother’s house, and bringing them Back to the concrete slab — both morgue And front porch — where…
They were leaving the harbor on power, against the flow of vessels putting in for the night. Across the water they could hear sharp bleats of compressed-air horns as people signaled from yachts to be brought ashore by the club launch. It was six o'clock on a calm Friday evening in August, the last weekend…
That wine we drank all summer — a straw Moselle with a hint of hay- green to it, August and June melded, sweet as apples which do not cloy, and letting sleep come without terrors after a bottle — is unobtainable in this city. In the fall, industry takes over even the cartoon squirrels, and…
Whatever he needs, I don’t have it. Though I’m paid to bunch hay For the doe-eyed elephants and tenderize the whip That keeps the tiger on its high stool, He would rather have me Apprentice to his pain, hanging From the spiderlines of rope or buried under The great stakes driven deep in the ground….
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