are used to mount hinges on doors alongside the melon ball scoop hard-boiled egg slicer jodhpurs, corn-skewers tuning fork, grapefruit knife kaopectate nut pick they wait for their single summons practising saying “coming!” as a matter of fact, consider grinding stones washboards napkin rings who may never again be called those with particular adaptations Latin…
Here there is violence: she waits on simple blue not innocent, not unaware, sprawled, random, nude. The ambiguities of her air all gathered in and pent emerge as rose and scarlet. Rage takes its attitude.
My daughter tells me her dream, where she saw The Times on the porch in the morning and knew from the page-sized black of the headlines—WAR— DECLARES WAR—that now it was over, and wept in her dream to think that she’d never have her years, friends, a marriage night, shifting the dreck of everyday life….
Our conversation began by wandering into the visual arts. Knowing Mark Strand had painted, and had come to Iowa from the M.F.A. program at Yale, I asked if he kept up with the work of contemporary art. S: I follow the work of a few friends and sometimes write art catalogs or brochures, but I…
Ten years older in an hour— I see your face smile, your mouth is stepped on without bruising. You are very frightened by the ward, your companions were chosen for age; you are the youngest and sham-flirt with the nurse— your chief thought is scheming the elaborate surprise of your escape. Being old in good…
I love sweets,— heaven would be dying on a bed of vanilla ice cream . . . But my true self is thin, all profile and effortless gestures, the sort of blond elegant girl whose body is the image of her soul. —My doctors tell me I must give up this ideal;…
In the exaggeration of distance between the hotel chapel and the body poised a foot beneath the ceiling’s dust, an incorruptible levitation, an axe in the public air pointing away from the knife’s hilt over the heart. Murder, from the alluvial elbow to the diagonal breviary. For us, a perfect focus unaware of conspiracy, distracted…
(For Peter Taylor) Southcall— a couple in passage, two Tennessee cardinals in green December outside the window dart and tag and mate— young as they want to be. We’re not. Since my second fatherhood and stay in England, I am a generation older. We are dangerously happy— our book-bled faces streak like red birds, dart…
The old lady’s face. Who knows whose it was? The bus slid by me. Who in the world knows me? She was amazed, amazed. Can death really take me? The bus went away. It took the old lady away.
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