Article

Evening News I,

We have been there      and seen nothing Nothing has been there      for us to see In what a beautiful silence      the death is inflicted In a dazzling distance      in the fresh dews And morning lights      how radiantly In the glistening      the village is wasted. It is by such sights      the eye is instructed

At St. Croix

Peter Jackman and Jo Morrison were both divorced, and had been lovers since winter. She knew much about his marriage, as he did about hers, and at times it seemed to Peter that their love had grown only from shared pain. His ex-wife Norma, had married and moved to Colorado last summer, and he had…

Evening News II,

The face looking into the room; Behind it light, shaking, like heat Lightning; the face calm and knowing; Seeing but not seeing who I am; The mouth maybe telling something. Something about our helplessness; Something about the confusions of beasts; The consequence of error; systems Haywire, or working; the stars gone All wrong in the…

Barbara

The machines were vacant. Was a trumpet beginning a single slow turn? How could the storm frame itself? Find the space between any two stones And measure your travels from that distance. The inside is too fast to stand against And not, move, you will not. Nothing more narrow. We were not told until after…

A Poem for Winnipeg

At the confluence of the Red River and the Assiniboine, exactly two hundred miles and fifty northwards from Fargo, North Dakota, the city of Winnipeg, Manitoba; from the Cree word win-nipiy meaning `murky water’, not, as I had thought, from a peg, or some other such, which had once belonged to Winnie. And the cold…

Sculptures by Dimitri Hadzi

This metal blooms in the dark of Rome’s Daylight. Of how many deaths Is Rome the bright flowering? See, the dead bloom in the dark Of the Fosse Ardeatina. The black Breath of the war has breathed on them; Shields gleam, and helmets, in the memory. Their flowering is being true To their own nature;…

Periplum

An accidental landscape could Close down the approach Sketched in glass, aureate Gravings of soft tropical Foliage, produce heaped on The dock, these islands Are slow. Pale oaken oars Pull each wave apart. A various harbor goes Out draped by narrows.

Erica Jong Is Singing a Song

When I arrive      and Roethke rumbas      in a green      fedora.      Hands are strangers      large as pockets      light. Mine float.      They scratch my groin.      I scatter      punctuation. Rain. Another, quieter room.      Allen Ginsberg holding court.      ancient poet luminary      poor as tinder.      The threadbare coat, the light.      Shining through thin threads.      I’m glad you’ve come      he says,…