Poetry

Already at work—squatting, preening— the Cambodians weed the cranberry bog. They’re close to the earth like mourning doves foraging below the bird feeder—the last to come, to take what others dropped. There’s no moaning. They’re chatty, a giddy cackle carries among them while they move together. They’re alive as the frogs that ga-dung in the…

At night the earth’s flesh shifts, which makes the house sigh in its sleep, which sends a shiver through the wood-bones of my bed, which makes me stand up in my dream and climb a hillside flush with gorse and may. I lie down on the peak and feel the kick-punch-kick, and wonder what the…

for Nana What’s most fantastical almost always goes unrecorded and unsorted. Take spring. Take today. Take dancing dreamlike; coffee your night, creameries your dream factories. Take walking as a dream, the dearest, sincerest means of conveyance: a dance. Take leave of the notion that this nation’s or any other’s earth can still be the same…

translated by Marilyn Hacker In the country, he talks to her about art About love, about life, he says that he creates And he loves, she says that his painting Is rubbish, he says that art is life, She says that he’s a layabout, He plays at pricking her with a blade of grass, she…

You’re writing down next spring’s     garden: beans, tomatoes, squash & so on. Outside, snow sticks everywhere,     clogging everything up, hemming You in. When done you pick up     the newspaper. In the obits there’s always someone you know.     They come & go, & you never Quite get used to it. Walking    …

Man is the cruelest animal. She wanted to sleep with the philosopher, she wanted to feel the warmth of his back against her chest. Some people had trouble with the consonants, others reversed the vowels. He made her think—that was his gift. She wanted to name a restaurant after him, the offerings cued to his…

across the Passaic’s asphalt drawbridge into the heart of Kearny— my cheeks flushed with wine—you the muse I did not choose dragging danger down in chains across the hangdog face of me as I followed you upriver, wanting you to cleanse me like a sari fitted through a virgin’s wedding band—why else would I cruise…

Whether the language rebellion against phallogocentrism is really the deepest thing or whether it’s just a way of getting out of history i.e., race, class, and gender, so tiresome, so unavoidable; whether, that is, poetry, etc., no matter how weird, surreal, anti-referential, disruptive, etc., accepts things as they are when they need to be changed?…