Poetry

amid the loved lost causes, the revival of the classics, the classless society, you work on a dirge for the language your grandmother loved you in: snih, trava, lyubov. . .

There I was one day in the parking lot of the First Brother's Church on one foot, a giant whooping crane with my left ibex finger against my temple trying to remember what my theory of corruption was and why I got so angry years ago at my poor mother and father, immigrant cranes from…

and pussy willows feather framed madonnas. I stand on the dining room table like a lamp, reciting syllables of unbroken light by a poet a century gone— what fine filaments burned whenever I forgot myself. Mother stitches a pillow, nodding her strawberry head. A tipped oak rankles the window. Years later, I enter a room…

I never told this—I saw Bob Summers' body one last time when they dropped him down the chute at the crematorium. He turned over twice and seemed to hang with one hand to the railing as if he had to sit up once and scream before he reached the flames. I was half terrified and…

It was made to play by itself over telephones on ears that had receivers on clotheslines, on steeplechase frenzy of the tight road, for strings are made of the human kind, hands, and the bowels of music which stretch from the fingers, and into a mother's hair. You can cut the hair so short on…

In winter the wolf lets its hair grow thicker. Thick as a bush unaware of its thorns. And the coat grows darker, the way the meaning of a shadow falls deeper into the darkness of the mind and fear starts its own season. Then the wind sharpens the wolf's teeth the way hunger does. A…

Nights in the barn, the clean astringence of urine steaming into the tendrils of a dungfire, the cattle sleeping their own way, and me mine, despite the puppies tied to the housepost, their lean mother snapping, the only      window stuffed with straw. To keep out snakes? No. Reic shifts at watch. To block the cuckold's…

for Roy De Carava For a boy on the street in 1920 you don't need art supplies, some colored chalk for hopscotch, the pigeontoed balls of the feet. At the Guggenheim you don't figure a white dress on a black woman's wedding day is really subject matter for the Family of Man, but she enters…

I want to report to you that in my name, SUE ANN OWEN, I have found the word SNOW. I can also spell out without much trouble the animals that dare to live there, SWAN, EWE, and that old SOW, though the SNOW makes it quite cold for them. This is not to mention the…