in memory of Stephen Blos Although we always come this way I never noticed before that the poplars growing along the ravine shine pink in the light of a winter dawn. What am I going to say in my letter to Sarah — a widow at thirty-one, alone in the violence of her grief, sleepless,…
Bend your back to it, sir: for it will snow all night. How gently they sink — white spiders, multi-bladed bleak things, these first, into the nearly mirror of your shovel's surface. It snows, lightly — wide columns of black between each flake but it will snow all night, and thicker. So, you start now…
Sometimes they left me for the day while they went — what does it matter where — away. I sat and watched her work the dough, then turn the white shape yellow in a buttered bowl. A coleus, wrong to my eye because its leaves were red, was rooting on the sill in a glass…
An unknown river whose banks drip feathers, orchid petals, wherein live fish mysterious; a medieval scholar, humanist scamp. No, a rare, rich dish, thick with crème fraîche; the local junior high known for annual bake sales. A beautiful African princess, two thousand cows her dowry; a town in New Jersey. A defunct balm or salve;…
for . . . . Beyond anything else, he dwells on what might inhabit his mind at the moment of his death, that which he'll take across with him, which will sum his being up as he's projected into spirit. Thus he dwells upon the substance of his consciousness, what its contents are at any…
a clear zither complains far into the night, the moan of wind and rain swirls round in the strings. a solitary lamp, a Ch'u horn heard; a waning moon glides down behind Chang Terrace. already the fragrant grass is withered but still her lover has not come. a letter home cannot be sent for the…
trans. Hungarian Bruce Berlind In March we began the longer and longer walks, in populated areas, and what with the diversity of houses and streets we walked out of ourselves the desire to get away, which however would have been only a so-called trip, but we did not dare leave the birds here, then we…
He should never have died though I've been lecturing about him all spring he's alive saying important things on Thursday things that would solve all our problems if only we were strong enough to be absolute Every Thursday the snow dunes have melted the sun burned, exhausting Every Thursday I've prayed not to be buried…
Year in, year out, I've ploughed and fished: the gulls have come to depend on me. The steps have grown a thick mat of slate-green moss, Wisteria shoots out lush purple vines. Wind-blown orioles churr from tree to tree, Rain-dampened swallows swoop in and out of the buildings. I didn't realize the spring light was…
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