Poetry

I love to find a door. Like the spinal tap— above the draped fetal curve, you work the trocar inwards. Dowser, boatman, auger, bore. Every surface has its opening, even bone. Steel finds fossa, penetrates. That give, as the needle enters dura. Slide out the central metal filament, it rings, and the invisible emerges, drop…

Never discount what began his wanderings. In Athens he was the greatest craftsman. So much work he had to hire his nephew to help him. But his nephew had his gift   and soon people claimed the nephew’s gift was greater than the uncle’s. If the uncle built with bronze, the nephew built with gold….

for my great-grandfather We ran from a home                                   we never saw again. Saw nothing                                               remain ours. My arm shot               from my body. My wife’s broken neck. Our son burned                                 into a wing of smoke. A peeled face boiling with flies.                                             A man tearing his gangrened leg off              with his…

What else could the boy have done? Wasn’t flight both an escape and a great uplifting? And so he flew. But how could he appreciate his freedom without knowing the exact point   where freedom stopped? So he flew upward and the sun dissolved the wax and he fell. But at last in his anticipated…

Morning met the grass in whiteness white sparks, chalk and bone. Noon was a gristle of crickets. Dusk was black leaf smoke, quick, then dark, star-still, darker still.

Say genius is one side of the mountain, then is vanity the other? Consider Daedalus after he escaped from the king’s prison. The king pursued him. He had many jewels   but Daedalus was brightest. Of course Daedalus concealed himself. The king went to his lesser kings and set them a task. He gave each…

Mealy-bugs, shootflies in squadrons, mites. A leech sucks your ankle. A slug slides up your leg; curdled ooze, the glue in the globs of it, leaky muck and swamp water, a lacy scree of green laid upon its surface, glug, glug, mush and slough, bug manure. Each step each leg lugged from its last footprint:…

“Dear Muzz,” I wrote, the summer I was ten from a seedy nature camp in the Poconos with cows and calves, huge geese, some half-wild ponies —heaven for the urban savage I was then— “I have to do this letter to get breakfast. Kiss Kerry for me. I milked a cow named Clover.” (Kerry, my…

A bird sings from the tree. The birds sing sending waves of desire—and I stand on my roof waiting for a randomness to storm my days. I stand on my roof filled with the longing that sings its way out of the bird. And I am afraid that my call will break me, that the…