we do not know the name of the river that roils beneath us until we arrive at its shores—until we give reason to pass along or stay there where waters sound like uncut jewels swirling in a tide pool—until the little boats we’ve made fold like kites in a storm—until we’ve come to that point…
A fire has started in the kitchen, and is moving from room to room. There’s just enough time to save the Rembrandt, an original, or the portrait of your wife. You save the Rembrandt, of course, but when you get outside you think it might be possible to save the portrait as well. You dash…
One minute I’m standing in the parking lot behind the De Anza theater. We’re throwing our empties at each other, our smokes turning a whiter shade of pale. The subject is horsepower, and the cars we’re leaning on are Cougars, Mustangs, GTOs. Now and then we rumble off and back again for no particular reason….
I’ve come home, to sit inside this house among the locusts and the crickets, their goodbye duet, their chitter and squeak of So long. Packing his things to make room for my own: his pale blue Easter suit, his Bowie knife, its leather sheath branded with Nashville. Catholic medals, a finger’s length statue of Christ…
The meadow hears everything—or does it? Perhaps the short-haired girl up to her knees in grass is the one who takes it all in. She’s skin and wide eyes, alertness and hurt, as if she can remember the fireflies sparking on some future night, the voices saying I want to be like this forever. As…
Like a voice drifting across low damp ground it is always there. I have whole files on the subject. There is nothing more to know. My name hangs like a sign outside an old inn, a painted figure for illiterates, blown to and fro. Last night I had a dream of finally…
Sing for us whose troubles are troubles we’re lucky to have: cold orange juice, and cold coffee, corridor after corridor, as our circadian rhythms fall into place: work is a refuge from home, and home from work. We have task force reports, but no tasks, and no force, so far removed from concrete and crisp…
for lunch he made her sweet peas with milk and butter her favorite— and after school he taught her lessons in French kissing until the grandmother caught her snuggled in his lap fingering combat ribbons and stripes the smell of aftershave and tobacco safe and after all what did she know when she was pulled…
In tennis shoes whitened with toothpaste Running next to a hoop steered with a stick From the hill down the footpaths of Aptekarka park I’d like to see myself today Through your boy’s eyes. Our shared shame Under the duckweed of still ponds. Above them, in that past now, the rusty sun. Which of us…
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