Poetry

After seven days of round-the-clock jackhammers and hot-tempered chisels, the bones surrendered. The hands, which were to be sent to watchmakers, kicked up, incessantly pantomiming. The feet were toenailed onto sunflower stems; both sent, heads bowed, captive, to Diaghilev. Since there was so little heart there to speak of, the cavity stored C-clamps and wisps…

The six directions which form a sheep     are proof enough of Plan. Plain to see why the head belongs on top:     to view the view. And why The ewe must brace her hooves     against the earth. The belly Rides beneath the back, to ease     digestion on its downward tract. As teats…

i. The wind sings too, but only of itself, leaving a valley between mountains in a landscape that will never become real to us. And it is true we can no longer really know this land, isn’t it? Only move through its casseroled orchards, vineyards and sunflower farms in mindful proximity to all that it…

Let me pin the hair from your damp forehead. Chinsucker. Unlearned skin. In the next room I think they are building something with chicken breasts and string. Hold still. Do not kiss the displays. Were we given two of everything we should want one more. Strap of canvas, strap of leather, buckle. The rear spar…

John began to tell friends of his new ability to see not only colors but sounds . . . about the same time that he began to have trouble remembering words. —Bruce Miller, “A Passion for Painting” I remember that one, it has wings like those things that fly, it’s green or chartreuse, I saw…

The talk show this morning stars those who prefer self-satisfaction to making love with another. Both male and female artists in the tradition of Onan are present in comfortable chairs, quite at home discussing their methods. They often turn to crafted latex, a phallus more reliable than that on a man. And by the way,…

translated by Marilyn Hacker Nothing disturbs the duck on the pond’s edge Either at sunrise or at dusk Nor those others placed in the abundant hair Which spreads its auburn rust in constellations On the pond’s surface, tepid stars Swarming in the hemisphere of cold Time breeds like this too, spreads out Across the stillness….

for Tom Lynch Huge glossy beetles doze in this room, each with a lifted wing-case the size of a car door. They are only fed once, then close themselves with a click. Too heavy to fly in their mahogany and oak, they have grown handles.

for Roger Erickson Language, I have wanted you to have a body that knows itself; I have wished you could sing in the tempo of my last inclination. I have wanted you made of metal or oil, or soil— I have wanted. I have wanted. Language, it has taken years, but I have made my…