There is nothing more than a painted room and I, a painted woman in it by an open window, a brass sun and a blob of flowers on a cabinet. Crowds come in every day to look at the bold brass color of the sun, the window quite unlike any other; the cabinet with flowers….
All summer and fall the couple floats hand in hand from work at the shelter workshop. Hand in hand in their secondhand sleeveless oxford shirts. With target tattoos on their deltoids. Even in the winter, the same way, hand in hand, although bundled up in secondhand wool coats. One snowy evening, right after they pass…
Is it a vanishing point or is it Brooklyn into which the cables run Brooklyn over which these two these shadowy walkers come against the shaded rails against the future in the arcades in the bridge the parallels above them in midair § Under a clatter of fire…
Regard a tree. Who would have better seized light’s longing? Longing a labor is first, is first. First the cold path of it. (Bring water.) Egregious is a few steps over wet stones hai ailala or you might miss it Shirred up, wet against the grain silica might call out …
for my son, Klemente Gilbert-Espada In 1898, with the infantry from Illinois, the boy who would become the poet Sandburg rowed his captain’s Saint Bernard ashore at Guánica, and watched as the captain lobbed cubes of steak at the canine snout. The troops speared mangos with bayonets like many suns thudding with shredded yellow flesh…
Turned from the camera’s eye, hovering, between river & bridge, the hung woman looks downstream, & snagged in the air beside her, the body of her young son. They are tassels on a drawn curtain; they are the closed eyes of the black boy who will find them while leading his cow to the riverbank;…
Percussion at bedtime! A fist-sized rock, well-aimed, wrecked two windowpanes and missile-cruised my living room, bestowing transparent sharpness; ricocheted; reposed on a walnut bookshelf thick with history (the Black Jacobins, class war in ancient Greece). Glittering quills adorned a potted palm. The projectile excited scrutiny: its mongrel shape lopsided— round, then sharp; its colors muddy,…
I’m up in Squaw Valley—yes the name is utterly inappropriate in these late twentieth-century days, but hey, history isn’t pretty especially place names. Monument Valley has no monuments The Eiffel Tower or Tour Eiffel just stands there squat on the ground, then rises grid and girders. The difference between New York and Paris is landmarks….
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