There were flowers all summer long in my side pasture, anemones’ & poppies, all the largesse of a place tended a while. I buy them when I see them on the street in tin buckets from those rough men, the flower men. There is so much black I hadn’t seen before in their fast bloom,…
for M.H.O. That which I should have done I did not do. Here on the porch The beginning of spring Or end of winter Reflects off the screen. I stare at you Who now can barely see Even the light that sparks The tunnels of dust. You are blind, Prideful and sentimental …
the mind opens like milk the old bottles cream balanced on top paper caps snapped perfectly into glass rims tilts deeper to watch the dividing line stretch out union of ecru and bluewhite drop by drop remembers light glazing the bottle’s neck a woman’s shoulder learning to pour dream into a pitcher to drink from a cup…
White birches scream winter, their treetops fright wigs attenuated in the arc light. Small planes and radio-beacon spires dot the black sky like stars amid the cirrus patches scurrying north for denser cover. Out in the russia-flats between cities wheatlike anonymous marshgrass denies the complications of leavetaking or arrival. Towns pale the dark with self-importance….
My name is Pablo Picasso And my name rhymes In French, in Catalan, even in American As I travel, stopping often To call aloud the single word Lady I find my ghost is still feared. I’d like to answer: This was my body, I give it to you, And this my art, which is only…
1. Sometimes my lips would appear flecked with lipstick or, more often, the roofing-tar the neighbor kids chewed— all the while, my father, afraid to ground his suspicions by naming them, bit his tongue. 2. Turning from a Chagall, you blurt “I want a divorce . . . ssh, we’ll talk later.” The Louvre darkens…
Did you see the modest girl who was ravished by young Neil on a sunny day on top of a hill: and no one at all near at hand but a young child who could not walk. Pity O King I wasn’t his, I wouldn’t have uttered a cry or shout though he would have…
I was reading about rationalism, the kind of thing we do up north in early winter, where the sun leaves work for the day at 4:15. Maybe the world is intelligible to the rational mind; and maybe we light the lamps at dusk for nothing. . . . Then I heard wings overhead. The cats…
A head of cheese raised by wolves or mushrooms recently rolled into the village, it could neither talk nor walk upright. Small snarling boys ran circles around it; and just as they began throwing stones, the Mayor appeared and dispersed them. He took the poor ignorant head of cheese home, and his wife scrubbed it…
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