Between the river and that Country Girl who sits forgotten on her hill we wandered through a zone of shops where antique furniture is wrought to reborn lustre long forgot by men who seem as woody as their craft humming burdens to their saws while chips fake haloes in their hair. The gracious forms restored…
I’d forgotten you so liked art. And many things advanced in those days to a point of consciousness beyond any speech or understanding the nerves could utter. Yet when I designed the fine-blown glassware you impressed upon each piece a delicate leaf, a hand, a monstrous kiss that marked each one’s relief from the next,…
The small ones, in suits and dresses, wrapped their rosaries round the chairlegs or tapped the wall with squeaky shoes. But their widowed mother, at thirty-four, had mastered every pose of mourning, plodding the sadness like an ox through mud. Her mind ran well ahead of her heart, making calculations of the years without him…
It is morning. After Lena has stripped Marigold's udder and strained the goat's milk into the refrigerator jug; after she has fed the horses and the dogs; and after she has shooed Evvie's gander off the lawn to the edge of the fire pond and scattered a handful of grain there to keep him interested,…
after Elder Olson Six inches tall, the Russian doll stands like a wooden bowling pin. On her painted head her red babushka melts into her shawl and scarlet peasant dress, and spreading over that, the creamy lacquer of her apron. A hairline crack fractures the equator of her copious belly, that when twisted and pulled…
There are no edges to the sky. A star falls, exploding in a fountain of light near the tops of the mountains. The black Saguaros loom around us lifting their rigid, pitiful arms, and the moonlight throws their black shadows across our bodies. Standing on the desert makes me think of a glass pitcher of…
A spider floats from the apple tree With a silk thread Through air to the blossoming dogwood. The long silk, Spittle and linchpin, is cut By the wing of an evening grosbeak. Over the late lawn, Between flowering trees like blue parallel snowfields, Is a cedar birdhouse Within which a man wakes. The cut thread,…
I. Not to speak when we’re so close is to be small and shapeless, unlike the other, small and not part of the clouds, the islands of sky, the inhaled breath. To forget women while gazing at their form. As when the navies are formless, ships without number, planted in the ocean as on plateaus…
He woke in a different country, his own hands Rose to his mouth, and his fingers Rubbed at his eyes, and he was standing On his own feet, but the people passing Had darkened their speech like daylight going dim Around him, he told them to speak slowly, he told them To listen, please, he…
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