Acrylic resin paint on canvas No longer tension, no dimension, only the words without letters floating in their washes, hiding Salomé, the figure behind our musings trapped in her camouflaging dance. The limit makes the shape and we have none, no bodies for the indistinct yearnings ebbing into mist, desire and mist. Imagine the sea…
Every day the boy marks her progress: at the round window, her round eye, the bluebird that scrambled in and out with grass, or moss, with string, hair, wool, the innermost feathers of her breast. And if he's spotted her in the bush or on the wing, he lifts away the front wall of the…
What I dare to hope may be my next book will—Muses and publishers willing—consist of four longish poems, each focussed on a woman and each involving a relationship with (no, not her, but) a prior text. Something after a seventy-year-old friend had told me the story of her dramatic escape from war-torn Poland, I was…
Oil on paper mounted on linen Never this scratched world, its human brows like dry point, your harmonies are liquid glycerin, soothing, the lingering bath. Who knew better than you, Mark Rothko: color has not root nor core. Into each other at the first kiss fusing, a metamorphosis! Blue paint laps about our toes, our…
He was to arrive at San Francisco, a six-year-old boy flying from China alone for twenty hours. We went there to meet him, hoping he still remembered us, since he had not seen us for three years. We waited patiently at the airport, till all passengers came through the customs. Did he miss the plane?…
New York, January. I am in the act of reaching out a hand to put a letter in the mailbox. The letter is a request to an old acquaintance (old now, perhaps; he certainly seemed old to me twenty years ago) for advice about a book I am contemplating, a gathering of recollections about my…
In the duplication center I xerox a hundred pages of the usual stuff, you know the stuff. I xerox maybe a branch's worth, maybe a small lower branch of Georgia loblolly pine: evergreen scent of toner, & when I close my eyes, I see the long needles of light along my branch. Sometimes, the stuff…
I Hazing, they call it in America, but I already knew it from Armagh, the fledgling hauled to the pump, protesting, by the bigger boys to be baptised with his nickname, Froggy, Screwy, Rubberneck or Dopey, some shameful blemish, his least attractive aspect, hauled out to harry, haunt him through his snail years in St….
I In the “restored medieval house—sensational views” we've rented for March and April, one of the first things I become aware of is a strange crowding jostling my sleep. Thick-walled interiors go weirdly garish, floodlit by a multiplicity of dreams, ungenerous dreams that cluster packed as hanging garments elbowed, shouldered through in a narrow, fetid…
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