Here on the phone is Miss Patricia Mitchell Of Nacogdoches, Texas, who is writing her term paper About a poem of mine she wants to ask about. “It's such a privilege, Mr. N,” she says, “Just to pick up the phone and talk to you.” “The others in the class are writing theirs On W…
after Lewis Hine Maybe her crossed black and white eyes wept, as each acceleration of the immense cotton lyre deafened her. Maybe the voice and face of Jesus comforted her breathing, in the mill's fire- inhibiting drenched air. What's clear is this: dazed, grateful, she stood one day at the picket gate, just there, smiling…
“Give me some light!” cries Hamlet's uncle midway through the murder of Gonzago. “Light! Light!” cry scattering courtesans. Here, as in Denmark, it's dark at four, and even the moon shines with half a heart. The ornaments go down into the box: the silver spaniel, My Darling on its collar, from mother's childhood in Illinois;…
Only seem to be there when you look for them At first, almost a secret, except for a tiny spring Or needle's point that peeks out from behind What it's supposed to prop up —Or keep back; but these silver snow fences, Once you've located one, The bands and wires are suddenly everywhere, Tensed, unyielding,…
It was on your father's work bench In the barn that you undid Your skirt: hair, kinked hair Thick as a child's black scribbling, Pink when you breathed And opened. You watched Me watch you. The barn ticked. Pigeons shifted in the rafters, Their wings like prayers as we made Hurt noises and blood cried…
If you feel around with your fingers there is a corner to every sin Upon finding that tight spot one must remember what to do Listen I have been out setting this trap Cabbage is cheap Nobody has seen me if I eat right I'll grow…
The earth already knows too much About us. We dig holes And throw ourselves in, Weep, set stones Where no stone would sleep. The mountains, blue yoke in the distance, Are coming down— Rock, bush, slaughtered tree. The sea is washing salt from the bodies Over and over, and without rest. I tell my daughter,…
Small operas, the seedy merchants at the blurred ends of fuming streets in the immigrant photographs, insist on it. What are you supposed to do with desire in America where your heart is so many poor shops? He takes a girl to the Catskills on a bus. Her dull kerchief and the black hairs wire…
for wisdom bits, I had to act now that father'd suited me up for St-hood. Better late next time. It wasn't that I minded my toy-razor or lathering up so early, just that the sink swallowing my hairless suds would go all the way to hell and back before it let on there was anything…
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