Poetry

—odor of hot stone, like a sibyl          ironing, is it not so, her duns and indigos                 . . .          odor of love         sea ammonia —a licknut leaf diving out after boyish pleasures,          as Apollo hung out       whole days with Hyacinthus—jack-juice outlaws:          one of them the green sometimes seen in…

Yesterday’s snow falling again and already. Falling steadily among the vowels, the tall consonants. Alertnesses scumbling among the cabbages. The eyebrowed jay named by a man named for a star. Stellar’s. When I say the word the pleasure happens on my palate and I am never the same person again. Smoke. Granular. Piñon. Clouds slumping…

No dark field in which to wait No collapsed building How nothing we did exists Like a hiding spot where all get caught So what      and then      to do or to imagine, When a beating sound exists Like a ticking sound Against ourselves, past the subject As if hearing a distant conversation It’s not against…

Widening line of light What isn’t inked            (“the area of its competence A visit to the morgue at night? (Averse?)                           Traversed By the frame A hand (reaching in? withdrawing                           (From outside To lift                 (this sheet) Sheer homesickness—the text * Awoke a serial homesickness (the text) for a place you lived in—off and…

What is unremembered may be lodged she said a child     may not recall but will act it out in play doll on ground face against     tile see how he takes it by the hair by the foot by the tangled legs sweet mind made     of tangled legs and a patterned dress oh…

Numbers scraping their heels all night in the attic above them. The accounting was necessary but brought them near death. Like a fountain emptying itself for the tourists. Couldn’t the woman in the restaurant in the booth in the semi-     private room open her shirt? In one view the numbers represented his errors of…

Was wir nicht denken können, das können wir nicht denken; wir können also auch nicht sagen was wir nicht denken können —Wittgenstein A bewilderment, his wilting sense of betrayal, a wilderness— he composed the history of his own privacy. If you can’t imagine it you can’t think about it; you can’t talk about what you…

In the new film, the subtitles make the picture blurry, but it is an old film. What is the same in any part of the world? A field. Trees at its edges. The figure approaching us. Inside, the plaster falls from the ceiling nightly. What is the other source of sound? The instrument was going…

In the shower linoleum then floorboards then earth in     which the depths please send me away but see she cannot leave the house see what     has been done is thorough like something a cloth has been rinsed in or used for tied across the eyes I have taken precautions leave no     address…