Poetry

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…

Life makes a sea full of superfluous things. In shallow waters among seagrass meadows hide toy dragons with frilly appendages like tattered leaves. Such dragon wings, never meant for flight, help them merge into the background of kelp beds, swaying back and forth with the lukewarm current, back and forth like flotsam. Their eyes above…

Why anyone wanted a God the Watcher eluded me. Mystery. But then, one wants to be noted, or at least, noteworthy. Worth keeping an eye on, and so, behaving a little better than might otherwise. And so while reading A Hole Is to Dig maybe my delivery has improved taking pains to pronounce: children are…

There was the time I got stuck in a long line of cars entering a parking garage. Impatiently, I left my car (motor still on) and went for a walk. I walked around the park, under the big shade trees. The ground, that time of year, was covered with pine needles and my feet crunched…

He almost pitied them, those buried with no fare, as he sifted through the sand of their names and singled out the shades who would be granted no passage. Their breath was all cold-packed earth and mossy hush. How many coins he had now—the wake turned up their light when he fingered them. He tallied…

What with foresight and dancing, gypsies would seem to pass easily between worlds. The hummingbird too— only a moth with a beak— Have I ever heard it hum? Yet it’s everywhere welcome, coaxed by red flowers, even sugar water, for we are devious, in our desires. And the dead, we embody them for our own…

The road is impassable, a shelf on the side of a mountain the     wind keeps sweeping clear to fill with possessions for the new     year: fresh snow, and the North Country light that Polaris, king of hunger and the shivering animals, king of     branches that snap in the cold, sends as its indifferent     benediction. King…