Poetry

Even the night         suffers where it came from. And not         until the shadows of mimosas gather over the creek, like large         moth wings, un- spoken, will stars         recover. You see, we both want the same thing. Like a dibble         piercing the earth, turning over         the moist sod, it is…

I took a pin to my eyes and broke the surface tension and scooped out the machinery that so faithfully pictured what surrounds and refuses to wake us I sewed shut the lids singing I watched the sun rise with my brain and my skin and my useless pin and I fell from that terrible…

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…