Poetry

A man and a woman in bed at night breathe in, breathe out earthly pleasure, crunch of red clay beneath my shoes when I take the gravel path past the old dairy through the hillside pasture. Midwinter provides another meaning, by which I mean that other, more elusive, pleasure I know when I see, first,…

to address mystery without being mysterious, never expecting anyone to know, speaking only for yourself but not be self-centered, conducting yourself as if your work mattered, never naming what you love, believing in truth– as who doesn’t?–and not trying to say something, not contenting yourself with saying nothing, to bow down, to hate nothing and…

My aunt sat with a drink, the afternoon lit on the sill and half of her beautiful face when she spoke of her first death. It happened after a storm. Silver rays formed beams on the sea through the gray clouds and the surf pounded the sandy stretches of the Jersey shore. A rip current…

Women are right: There must be meaning; and the meaning will die. Men are wrong: They suppose there can be a deathless meaning; or else that there can be joy without meaning. Women know the double truth: There must be meaning; and the meaning will die.

“Soft trees against blue sky.” That is how Mrs. Abernathy described it before she died. “A small barn bent further than my arthritic spine. A white clapboard house, a wood burning stove and a sink you could fall into and land in China.” The autopsy report said pneumonia. It might have included the thousand little…

Chainsaws at dawn beneath a slate gray winter sky as my neighbor’s work crew clear-cuts the small lot behind his house and next to mine, rhododendrons and forsythia, junipers and spruce, and the mass of prickly sweetbriar the cardinals like—despite the rising ground and collection of rocks he wants an expanse of lawn as smooth…

Can we retire from sex just as naturally as we retire from a job? I do not have detailed studies. There is always that time of day when one ceases to pretend. The hotel was decked out with the relics of gaiety. The walls stopped short of the ceiling. There was no air conditioning even…

The older I get the less I’m bothered by seeming incongruity. I read the Gospel of Mark listening to Billie Holiday. A young man runs away naked from the Garden of Gethsemane and Billie sings, “I’m traveling light.” Eventually you find the rhyme for every word. The night is coming—perhaps that’s why— the color that…

when I first woke up, some time after my adolescence, I noticed all the other stars around me were dying—before then I thought I’d live forever—at least now I can talk to you—I can say I have a better understanding of your world, all that business over Eden, all those words used to describe it…