Midsummer's Eve: rain slants into docked barges near the Jardin des Plantes Cut your losses. Soon the inhabitants will leave the city to the international monoglot young. Out of the smallest, oldest perched village branch well-marked paths, beside the stream, the ravine. The streams flow down into the local river. The footpaths widen into roads…
When I see the old man again down in the underworld this morning, he and his son— how well they get on together, grinning and talking easily among the bundled packages— I feel as if I've ripped open some ancient buried layer of my past; not my own, my blood's. It's 8:45. They've been there…
for Quincy Trouppe, Sr. father, it was an honor to be there, in the dugout with you, the glory of great black men swinging their lives as bats, at tiny white balls burning in at unbelievable speeds, riding up & in & out a curve breaking down wicked, like a ball falling off a table…
Thank you for these tiny particles of ocean salt, pearl-necklace viruses, winged protozoans: for the infinite, intricate shapes of sub-microscopic livin things. For algae spores and fungus spores, bonded by vital mutual genetic cooperation, spreading their inseparable lives from Equator to pole. My hand, my arm, make sweeping circles. Dust climbs the ladder of light….
The quarry master's house at the far end of town still tilts on the brink of ruin like a clamshell balanced on a rock as goggle-eyed motorcycle gangs gun their engines around the curve. . . . It is ten years since we lived there. We arrive at the dock this time at dusk and…
—we enter and it is our home —Mary Oppen one In a strange city, remote, British, yet barely hanging onto civilization. We are here at the edge. What is asked while closing the door, while turning the corner? Your child is asleep with her last question. By day, I can only manage poor explanations of…
Back in the drafty hovel, the fishwife nonetheless wants. My daughter pats my cheek, asks what I want. Too much, I sigh. The moment already lost in her childhood past.
There's a photo of you that we all love. You're wearing your “Surf Russia” shirt, a beer in your left hand. John says it's typical that you have alcohol. You're standing near both the camera and the door as if you had it in mind to leave us all along, waiting for the right time…
I didn't know much about Marilyn Monroe the day she died. I'd heard her name. The world's most beautiful woman has killed herself, said the newscaster. I saw her stretcher on the black-and-white television. I was visiting my cousin's fiancé's house—visiting strangers. But the news about Marilyn had me squeezed on the couch in that…
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