Poetry

Sweet Jesus, talking      his melancholy madness,            stood up in the boat                  and the sea lay down, silky and sorry.      So everybody was saved            that night.                  But you know how it is when something      different crosses            the threshold—the uncles                  mutter together, the women walk away,      the young…

To find a bit of thread But twisted In a peculiar way And fallen In an unlikely place A black thread Before the mystery Of the closed door The greater mystery Of the four bare walls And catch oneself thinking Do I know anyone Wearing such dark garments Already worn to threads First thing in…

for Galina Gabay Green rivers run in February at the curbsides. Moscow is so huge, the snow so deep that when once the melt starts, nothing can stop it. People rejoice at that rushing water as we do at the first snow drops. We walk around goony in mid-March. “Fifty-one degrees,” we say. The sun…

“They said it was the most just of wars because it was against barbarians.” Charles Darwin, The Voyage of the Beagle 1. An Irate Official Aren't they going to attack? What do they mean with their casual demand for tribute and provisions? We're a ten-gated city, not a cluster of hovels at a dusty crossroads….

The statues of Greek Gods In the storage room of the art school Where I led Pamela by the hand— Or was it she who led me? Bit my ear, while I raised her skirt. Identical Apollos held identical Empty hands. Poor, imitations, I thought. They belong in a window Of a store going out…

At the airport waiting for our plane, we sat next to a Chinese man. He took off his shoe and sock and massaged his foot, working his thumb and fingers over the sole and delicate arch of the instep. Then he held his whole foot between his palms and forgave it, rocking it gently back…

My deepest secret but not my weight and credit rating. The not-I burns the day-care center somewhere near the      edge of the non-example in northern Nicaragua      because pity has a pre-modern ten-year-old face with a      hundred and eighty handpainted freckles. My repetitions but not my death. It was either a new car or staying home…

What we wondered as kids about the light in the icebox I'm wondering now about love. The apple digesting itself in the pantry. The corpse in need of a shave. All that goes on when no one's around to see it or say what it means. All the king's horses fed to the dogs, the…

At the crowded Ganges once I hitched a ride with tour-group tourists in their bus— They'd let me join them for that trip to the airport through seven miles of city, more of countryside. The members of that group wore wide-brimmed straws, sipped Cokes they'd brought along, showed each other trinkets they had bargained for,…