She remembers an absence of blue billowing down, playing loose with her, the impetuous sailor her mother warned her against time after time. The light did not invite her to dance, nor shine upon her only. In countless borrowed rooms she swallowed its gleaming intimations. Later, in the dark, she lies on the bed, recalling…
it’s the girl in deep water who will not drown (drum) come down (drum) come down (drum) zora’s instrument hidden in the belly (drum) carried across the atlantic (drum) it’s a mystery to master (drum) it don’t stop (drum) don’t stop (drum) gotta story to tell (drum) won’t stop (drum)…
She pays attention to the hair, not her fingers, and cuts herself once or twice a day. Doesn’t notice anymore, just if the blood starts flowing. Says, Excuse me, to the customer and walks away for a Band-Aid. Same spot on the middle finger over and over, raised like a callus. Also the nicks where…
Empty ice-cream carton in a kitchen garbage can. Up all night with your mother. He beat her again. Up all night eating ice cream, you made your mother laugh. ly Life is lone Duke’s hands on your shoulders, you play it again. Cancer eats moth holes through you and you and you. ly…
San Antonio, Florida They don’t mow on Sundays in San Antonio. They keep the seventh day for Paz and Neruda, for Simic angels whose wings are made of smoke. And they walk their dogs softly in the morning, so they will not miss the smallest utterance of Whitman or of John Clare, who pace the…
When the lights go out on a peaceful evening, it is wartime. Who pulled the switch? Sometimes all he heard was water on sand and even the shiplights flickered off, the bulbs swaying emptily on their poles. The bombers always rose from the horizon invisibly after dark. He dropped a glass of wine….
So I went out into the nervous system of the air— Bearing beneath my lettrist overcoat my village The monumental city long ago breathed in And held Went out into the signal and static— Rivermutter steeplebell and traffic—net of noise Knotted by sirens Into the brutal red dream Of the collective—humming there behind…
—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…
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