It’s not a month for Republicans, All business, baffled inside their suits The color of moles. The wind Shakes out the blue hair of matrons Who suck their thin cheeks pale as if At the mercy of pigfeet and banjos. I’m confused too but take heart in The first crocus wobbling out Like the precarious…
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….
The farm market, earlier all leaf lettuce and sugar peas, has gone to parsnip, potatoes, winter squash. And apples, dropping on the roadway, mixing with days of rain into thick slush as V. approaches the green market kiosk. FARM-FRESH EGGS PIE APPLES POTATOS The soft-spoken farmer follows where she points, bags beets, eggplant. He hands…
On cool, damp evenings at the end of July, you can walk into a mist; and the mist seems to disappear — from the dirt road; from the hill; from the trees. . . But in the full moon, you can begin to see it again — it gets closer, leaving a ring of clearness…
No products in the cart.