Poetry

Again on the highway with tears in my eyes, cadenced by rhythm of concrete and steel, music of cloud vapor, music of signs—Blue Flame Clown Rental/Color Wheel Fencing—again overcome, again fever-driven, transported among the pylons and skidmarks of the inevitable, sirens and call-boxes of a life I have laid claim to with a ticket found…

When I was younger I loved until I disappeared. I rested my head in my hand and saw only the beloved: his unruly words, the chocolate of his eyes, each hair on his head a vine from the soul. If we were sitting at a table— the other people around us, the table itself, the…

The light that woke the mayor made him think of town. It was a pale pink light ticked out by a palpitating bulb that droned above the empty road he lived on. He sat upright in bed, noticed his posture, how his jutting head sought equilibrium and not much else. God was far off. And,…

Peacock, I have to tell you, your feathers are beautiful. Snake, your length is my life. Mighty elephant, I never forget the corner I came from. Your shell, long-living turtle, is my crown. I preach the laugh of the hyena. Dear horse, thank you for my head of hair. Thank you, sweet ox, for the…

The sun came to in late December. Spring seemed just the thing that flattered into bloom the murdered shrubs along the splintered fence. The awnings sagged with puddles. Roads were streams. Wet leaves in sheets streaked everything with rust. The man who raked his lawn transferred a toad too small to be a toad back…

“I will smash their guitar.” —Joan Miró   The force that drives the left-handed guitarist     Waking from a dream that again escapes me to play right-handed . . . immortality, frets     like the eyes of vermin. No sheep fold, no birth chords and stops, scorings, the music itself     lava, breasts, no color…

—a translation of Dante Alighieri’s Purgatorio, Canto XVII Remember, reader, if ever high in     the mountains the fog caught you, so you could see     only as moles do, looking through their skin how when the humid, dense vapors begin     to grow thinner the sphere of the sun     finds its way feebly…

Spring rain. Inklings, earthlings, wet present     The sequence of events, that’s what’s best, when the clots participles and shivers before red sun and cicadas     dissolve as from the drugs . . . or in your city, Santoria, snow cones, dubbed syllables     to hear the names, to have the characters cast down The…

for John Engman (1949–1996) Dear friend, I heard tonight by phone of that ghost bubble in your brain. It was not the pearl of balance one fits between lines in a carpenter’s level to make something plumb, but a blip in a membrane that burst so now             your fine brain is dead— that city…