Poetry

Aged a lot during our talk (you were gone). Left and wandered the streets for some hours— melodramatic, I know— poor, crucified by my teeth. And yet, how we talked for a while. All those things we had wanted to say for so long, yes—I sat happily nodding my head in agreement, but you were…

Mine began in the first grade When Michael Burke stole my Blue ballpoint pen. I didn't Like Michael Burke before he Stole my ballpoint, and I Liked him even less after. He was loud, selfish, coarse, Pushy, overweight, and ugly. I knew because I sat to His right in back of the class And watched…

In the evening the couples came down from the hotel. It was summer and just past sunset. They walked along the river, the women in long dresses, the men in light-colored suits, while on the patio a boy played Scarlatti on the piano. The couples stood at the edge of the water and breathed deeply…

There is no sleep                 in the stillness of snow, in such                 an adoration                                       of freefall. Like a choir's           single inhalation, it seems to pause      between two songs. Sleep slips by me           in waiting for the sound.      Outside as in the laying down                            of walls, everywhere the snow      like…

But what of those things we left In closets: pants and shirts too small; Notebooks filled with deliberate, looped Script; tedious games we were proud To admit we loved? As a child I loved Everything! On the back porch, housed Beneath a table, I sang the same song Over and over until my voice gave…

El dia del fin del mundo. . . yo grabaré mis iniciales en la corteza de un tilo sabiendo que eso no sirve para nada. — Jorge Teillier The day on which the world ends will of course be different in each place. Here it is raining, there snowing. Here the night shields the now…

Under the bed I found your old sock Like a bird peeking out The sleeve of my shirt. I plucked it up. So sad, little foot, Now it's in the pocket Of my coat for luck. Later in the earth I'll feed its nest, Worms a plenty In my good dark suit.

The freezer holds only a few things. Fewer as it makes its ermine muff of frost, as it comes time, and overtime, to defrost. The shelves hold a few things. At the back on the lowest slab with the margarine, my withered corsage, red carnation: I dressed in black, and went on the bus to…

These people in the future won't be like us. Oh no, they'll be kinder and their foreheads will bulge past their noses with wisdom. They'll have our pictures of course, although they won't be snapshots as we know them but little holographs, three-dimensional photos, so when one takes one from his pocket it will look…