Here 40 years ago on moonless nights pilots cut their engines and Allies parachuted down. I know from movies the farmer's lantern, the password. In July now, irrigation sprays fan the fields with light, tiny mirrors that rise, arc, shatter the heat-stunned afternoon. Along the unswerving road someone has planted roses—for miles, alternate sides the…
The cathedral sticks up out of the gray mountain Like the raw knuckles of a fist at the end of an arm Or, since this is Mexico, an emaciated elephant At a circus. Surrounded by soda pop and flies Half of him is peeling pastels and crumbling graffiti In scrambled egg scallops, with people buzzing…
One of my presents, one Christmas, was a Golden Treasury of Archaeology, a book almost too big for my hands, its cover illustrated with masks from Sumer and a terraced ziggurat. The book's heaviness suggested it contained a secret weight: I stared into it, sure that some subtext buried like foundations would come clear. Heinrich…
— April, 1945 This soldier, this boy who moves through the innocent trees, does he regret the man he half-pushes, half-carries? The Rhine — simply another battle, a collage of mines, the human spasm: hands, hearts lost to maggots in the undergrowth. He marches on a thin gravel road, his footfall, meagre. A dung beetle…
Such wonderful tales leap, tongue-tied, from these broken names then vanish, one by one. Now morning's vanished too; each cracked stone tablet sheathes itself in noon's broad band of light — this clear, cold light, the special province of one anxious, backward glance. Lost stories fill the ear's one room with other rooms—all empty, room…
Like the purple seed inside a locket the memory of such a dress hides in the heart growing what seems so slight. For years I've been asking myself why falling in love with floaty pink stripes, soft cotton. At the mall, always alone, slightly embarrassed to be there at all, I lose myself among the…
I am willing to die at some time but on a morning choice as this I would find it too hard to give up the lavish details of this world voluntarily. Content as I am in my study of whatever passes my wrought-iron chair, I listen to all the varied forms of peace: the wind…
In a little casket, a garden begins to grow: wild roses pink as the mouths of house cats, daisies going to pieces in a loves me, loves me not lullaby, the white light of calla lilies flooding the vault's wall. Is there a baby in the casket? Yes, the blue kingdom inhabited by you, my…
Not much time left here in the other Brooklin overlooking Herrick Bay driven like an anchor into the town's center it is as though all of the animals had come out of the woods to speak now in that instant when the season flees and leaves its shards in the middens the black bear, the…
No products in the cart.