I wonder about you: whether the blue abrasions of daylight, falling as dusk across your page make you reach for the lamp. I sometimes think I see that gesture in the way you use language. And whether you think, as I do, that wild flowers dried and fired on the ironstone rim of the saucer…
Under pressure Mick tells me one of the jokes truckers pass among themselves: Why do women have legs? I can't imagine; the day is too halcyon, beyond the patio too Arizonan blue, sparrows drunk on figs and the season's first corn stacked steaming on the wicker table. . . .I give up; why do they?…
Tom heals best in the dreamless portion where nerves are quiet trees in winter. He opens his eyes in the middle of the night and feels better. He has nothing left: no maps of the way back, no green cry of wild parrots. Morning sleep may carry in its steaming kettle of images—little for the…
I am the daughter who went out with the girls, never checked back in and nothing marked my “last known whereabouts,” not a single lavender petal. Horror is partial; it keeps you going. A lost child is a fact hardening around its absence, a knot in the breast purring Touch, and I will come true….
When I was eight weeks pregnant, dazzling in black watersilk and moony, bloodstone earrings, demimonde, decoupage, the Inkspots fingering “Blue Indigo” above my swelling ivories, short at the waist and dripping dark, adoring swans over the slow backwater of my knees, he ripped the fabric, breast to pubis, such as I would be later torn:…
Old guy goes downstairs reeling and shying at newel and banister while how his feet once blistered the treads is what he is recalling, for the young know how to balance. Christ help all who wobble, stagger, trip, step double, and are their own hindrance, oh help them. The day is fine out, bright cold,…
This is how it happened. Spring wore on my nerves— all that wheezing and dripping while others in galoshes reaped compost and seemed enamored most of the time. Why should I be select? I got tired of tearing myself down. Let someone else have the throne of blues for a while, let someone else suffer…
I think you are my son now that I see the stalwart light on your hair, layers of composition, plucked cello wrist, bear down the spine I gave birth to, wracked note and sheet of clearest music, pitch, scale the beating trout under your areole, halo of rainbow, pleat the dear earth of your waist,…
Right up there this side the Five Chimneys Corners about a mile south the Oneida line, this goddamn granddaddy sugar maple block I tell you it's what you might call a real out-size block a old-time ball-busting son of a bitch of a block laying by the side the road where that house with the…
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