The season turns. The trees wound the streets. We too want to be touched. We press a scab to feel the pain. Or tongue that place in the mind which yields a death. Last week, your grandfather. The old coot, 95 and every relative furious and mute by the time he was sixty. So you…
I Having roughed up the waters wind explodes like the curses from fist-ravaged lips in the cold superpower's innards, squeezing trite wobbles of the do-re-mi from sooted trumpets that lisp. Nonprincess and porous nonfrogs hug the terrain, and a star shines its…
My father likes them hot and grows every variety known to burn the worst. Jalepenos hang in clusters like green bananas down the rows we are walking, our arms full of bread bags. Picking so many of them finally that our fingers sting and our eyes fill with water. “The little yellow ones with the…
and I have five. Surrounded by them, I was manless for years. You led me to kindergarten. In the back alleys of our housing project, in the winter halflight, no neighborhood kid could come between us. At home you called my faults like foul plays: “Error.” This is the walled city, family. Within, all the…
June 4, 1977 A falling star, or worse, a planet (true or bogus) may thrill your idle eye with its quick hocus-pocus. Look, look then at that locus which doesn't deserve sharp focus. * * * There frowning forests stand decked out in rags and tatters. Departing from point ‘A,’ a train there bravely scatters its…
High summer. I lead you to the woods to what must have been a lawn beside the ruins of what was someone's house. Here we lay our things; the blanket, the champagne, the prophylactics. The day so warm and you are beautiful and we don't know what we're doing. Beautiful and perfect, hair loosed as…
After the cocoon, then the monarch; after the first frost on the glass, we watch the leaves: red for maple, brown for oak. For the last day, wings. In the ancient ceremony silent players enter the festive houses, play dice with the citizens. So these days follow, September to November, like the click of bone…
Please don't take the cemeteries. We can't sleep when the dead fidget in air, their frantic fingers hushing the wind. We'll give bread, or pastures, even the trees tucked into themselves like frightened children. But please don't take the cemeteries. For each stone there is a blossom, a tear, an empty room where someone waits…
She dreams redly of ashes and is hurrying, hurrying.
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