Never weaned from anger (the stars incline but do not require), left alone she thinks hard thoughts mean as snow at harvest: home is paradise to cats, hell for wives, she thinks, are all babies slippery? boys hate old men, but women despise them: she thinks, bed full of bones, and bad usage aggravates the…
Strange arachnid, distant cousin of deer ticks and potato bugs, those armored pellets that live between bark and wood, stone and dirt. Unlike them you wash up hapless on beaches more a bowl than a shoe. You come in squads after mating in the waters of your birth, dragging the useless scabbard of your tail….
Once thought to be extinct . . . lives at depths of up to 1,500 feet . . . dies of shock when brought to the surface . . . almost nothing is known about it . . . —National Geographic I saw you in a book: bubble-eyed and staring, mouth spookily aglow with a…
In the darkness I can see every line of your face. As if you are in my womb. Your fingers feel for its entrance and I am your mother, imagining what you will look like when you are born. When I climb after you into the freshly laundered white duvet, and look at your face…
1 He said it would always be what might have been, a city about to happen, a city never completed, one that disappeared with hardly a trace, inside or beneath the outer city, making the outer one— the one in which we spend our waking hours— seem pointless and dull. It would always be a…
Old man, why shake a wrinkled prick at the young girls? They scream in harmony, scramble off, and then in mottled light, our eyes meet: you, unbalanced on the hoof of an orthopedic shoe, leaning on a stick, gumming your sly grin back into stubble as with a palsy- humbled hand you try to zip…
High noon in autumn And another ovulation Of sun on its way Down the blue tube of the sky, Then out the west through red leaves. Newly awakened, With first hairs turning silver, She never conceived Any leaves could look so red Or heat her with their color. One has to wonder What she feels…
The windows will reflect harder, blacker, than before, and fresh cracks will appear in the yellow brick. There is no milkman or paperboy, but presumably the lurid pizza fliers and brassy offers of loans will continue to drop through the letterbox. The utilities will be turned off one by one, as the standing orders keel…
Count on the storm to steel the waves, tin their shimmer and heave. The electric cracks sheen the air, particle its vapors, and the wind that’s coming has already moved the sea, miles off. Shoreside, we sense the sea has breathed in and readies. Now, oiled by the hovering cobalt, it simply rolls within itself…
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