Poetry

What hazed around the branches      late in March was white at first,            as if a young tree's ghost were blazing in the woods,      a fluttering around the limbs            like shredded sleeves. A week later, green fountaining,      frothing champagne;            against the dark of evergreen, that skyrocket shimmer. I think      this is how our…

There is a crooked keloid scar on the side of Tally's golden face that says, “I don't give a damn.” Around his neck he wears the Star of David—no special      significance. His left arm from shoulder down is tattooed marine-blue and between me and you, Tally ain't all there. But why should he care? Down…

Her phone not ringing his hand not tightening on hers not his wiry beard scratching her cheek or his pocked look of having looked at her and not looked again Not his toothbrush on a neat wood shelf far from the sink, the hallway stacked with papers, hung with paintings of nudes without features, shoulders…

The blue light of the teevee glowed on our blue faces. Ray Charles sang of Georgia on his mind. “His mind? That nigger doesn't have a mind!” Grandmomma said. She threw her tatting down on her lap, hawked once, dipped snuff, and glowered at the teevee set. “Damn niggers taking over teevee. You can't watch…

I feel cloudy, stumble often, knock my skull on the roof of the car getting in because I'm having a stint of daydreams. In one it's raining, weeks of it, then for no reason sunlight returns fingersnapping through trees. In this one it's Paris, a lonely attic, I remove a letter from its ragged envelope…

Huge drowsy yellow jackets rose out of the sick-sweet stink of fruit— a tub of scuppernongs wedged in between me and my uncle. He said, “Hold that tub steady. Don't let her tip.” He drove and boasted of his new air pump and how only fools would pay full retail price. And when the wasps…

Eight hours on my feet at Joe's Pizzeria and I know inside this on-again, off-again red pulse of an arrow pointing toward the tunnel my whole body wants to become. Joe slams down the grate and we're gone, out on the street where the neon craving of a train shudders into darkness beside the art…

The crook-legged articulation of insects among grass blades, thin spiders hurrying their side-wise straddle, and the multi-colors of flies, green and blue, the glint of compound eyes, Dragon and Damsel flies landing: the weight and thrum; the occasional bewildered grasshopper, a knifing of air; a glimmer of gnats or of Mayflies clustered, their quick cobweb…

That was the winter the city hired two guys to demolish by hand our neighbor's arsoned house— chimney, foundation, beams on the second floor. All January they worked with a tea kettle whistling on a trash fire, a boom box full of James Brown “feeling good.” I didn't, sitting in my coat cheering through a…