1. Three people walk on a cockle hill: broad-forehead Coleridge,yakking away emphatic whirling his arms; tall Wordsworth keepinghis steady measure in long strides; serene Dorothy, taking it in, quiet,melding the men. A farm dog, half-grown, short-legged, snags theirscent and runs to accost them, growls a moment, bares his teeth as ifto bite, then sniffs them…
All winter two giant snowballs stood in the center of the trampled schoolyard, & another one off to the side I felt bad for, then felt foolish feeling bad for. Every day I observed them through the chain link fence. Three giant snowballs the strewn parts of a would-be snowperson’s body. I’m trying not to…
under the overpass of the Cross Bronx, the headlights flash on broken concrete—between cars and exit ramp—and some undefined hunk of metal rising out of broken glass; then the disconnected passage that got us to Manhattan comes to me like a collage of cities spilling off the map. All I know is my father left…
I am the lion. I am the keeper of the keys. Black hats float upon the waters. When I think, I’m sad; when I don’t, I’m elated, over-joyed. Dazzled by the silverblackbacked mirrorwings of three ravens, I follow the shadow dancers onto thin ice! Once I drank silence from a spring, Once I opened slowly…
I had a dreamover and over as a child in my shimmering morning-light room,—it was set there, where I slept, woodpeckers hammering at the eaves,the river’s waves’ light moving as if forever on the far wall.I’d wake (still asleep) in the dream —I couldn’t speak!— as the two hands hovered.So that even if I thought…
I hate them worse than anything is what was beating up her head. She ran so fast, you’d have thought the dog was on her. Except Prank had disappeared three months back and was buried in a bullshit coffin off the alley. Worse than anything…worse than tomatoes…worse than milk…worse than…worse than anything. She was just…
They come jittering into her life from the past,brunette like her mother, wiryand tense, wearing garments blackas anthracite chopped from the city’s heart.Complaint rises like music or smokepast the elegant lamps of their facesas they settle their fringe and nail polishonto our secondhand couch: men, mostly,but the theme could be anything,children, money, uterine cramping,low brilliant…
Nothing was foreshortened but love, those daysof the iced-over river and penniless Thursdays— Iowa, where the news finished with the lateston pork bellies. The paper was named the Press-Citizen, a contradiction in terms. We eyed the neighborswith their post-midnight record hop, Led Zeppelin blasting the arm’s-width of the alley.The injuries of our twenties were recut…
Everybody seems to be pointing things at one another these days.The cop with the radar gun pointed his radar gun at my carand my car pointed back, its rearview mirror,to give the policeman an idea of what hurt looks likeeven if you do deserve that ticket,going 90 in a school zone during drop-off.Problems point at…
No products in the cart.