Poetry

Celestial Room

I remember when I was four a book seemed from heaven and then, when I was eight, it seemed a field.                           * How large the world has become, the thoughts, capable. I wanted to look at that, just that.                           * I thought I would never speak again. But there are books, transformed, and souls that…

After Aristophanes: take a twig

push up the wick, when the dark comes early. That’s marrow dark. Waiting-for-the-savior dark. Keep spare lamps for when cocoons turn mute: their prophecy spilled scale & tattered wing. For when no wasp will overwinter & no beetle. When that iridescence litters fields lace tight your goods. Somewhere in the barn a cache: broken bottle,…

a bouquet of violence

black-eyed susans sound abused, as if the night beats flowers up and needs help loving as people love who sign letters xoxoxoxo, which reminds me of football coaches showing massive men how to destroy massiver men on a chalkboard at halftime. if you are a flute thrown out a window on the way to montgomery,…

Doorway

He goes out the door as someone I don’t know. Not the boy-man I was at 17 but somewhat lagging behind, somewhat further ahead, dressed carefully for others in red and black, his body a deliberate mystery. No idea what he knows, what he says, what he does. I’m not supposed to know, only the…

Aubade shaped like breasts or arrows

Mistgreen maple leaves just twenty feet from my looking, my remembering                          an equally soft morning                          in Monterosso, woman with left hand                                               in sea, right hand                                               cupping a baby’s head                                                               to breast, how feminine                                                               it seems, the support, this mist                                               rounding sharpness                                               from bird chatter, this wombing of fence, of farm, of distance inviting me to…

Fassbinder

He couldn’t wait to finish a film before he started the next, forty-three total plus the nine-hundred-thirty-minute tv series; refused to commit to any one lover, man or woman; fucked his actors in Munich hotels and Morocco châteaus; left a trail of broken hearts, one ex-wife, four wrecked Lamborghinis, two suicides; popped pills to stay…

Tree of life

There’s something casual about maple leaves. They’re almost mittens, in the first place. They refuse to stand for the national anthem. And when it rains, as it rained last night, a rain I listened to on the floor, a rain as delicate as a shoplifter, they’re moved by each raindrop and resist each raindrop, creating…

Wishbone

Psychic rib soaped clean, skeleton key to every lock in this house. Heartless, this place, as I’ve come to christen it. The wish then abandoned in the soap dish, near the wet bone china. Last Christmas saw us shivering at Lake Erie, stroking the battered nose of a dinghy. Abandoned. Bone- clean, its hull scoured…

September Song

One moment you were tossing me a football in the empty field behind your house and the next I was getting clobbered by a linebacker and run over by a safety. Forty years vanished in that instant when the pigskin touched my hands, which are still soft, and the defensive end straightened me out with…