Poetry

You say, acting on it, and then You feed me wild strawberries dunked In creme fraiche, which you picked. And if you were younger, and once We were younger, and if bitter Thirst had not cloyed the thing, We say, acting on it, and if These strawberries and this one rose You picked last now,…

“The poem is the present which you can't define.” — Henry Miller Fortunately, it is daytime. A woman walks by, adjusts the neckline on her daughter's dress, continues. A station wagon passes. Cleo, a Doberman, measures her yard in long strides. The wind soothes the walls of the houses, the air-conditioners cool. Trees move. With…

Madam, this is a prayer-ring from Tibet: a tiny bell to rouse the god, three silver thunderbolts, seven grains of gold. And in the center, see, an emerald, lightless, dark. . . I had it from a lama's chela whose master sent him to buy food. Here there are many beggars from the hills. You…

From the green woods, from the flashing wilderness, she selected one perfect tree. There she cut her heart, paring down to the sap-center, slippery where the bark peeled back in three inner layers. She cut first through the outer bark, its rough edges and satisfactory hurts. She peeled through the cambium, cutting the upward life…

Ladies are outside the door; I hear them rustling, dropping keys inside their purses, snapping them shut. Mother nudges to the door. Peering through the keyhole she whistles in two tones: Hello! Hello! and lets the ladies inside. Nodding, they enter shaking their coats. Their hands strike: pale cobras hitting my cheeks making a series…

The cloud is a bowler hat, a profile delicate and handsome, a cane, a figure falling, the plume of smoke from a train. My grandfather sits up straight, his dark eyebrows rakish and innocent. The hooded photographer shoots his plates back and forth. The cloud becomes a pigeon's wing. Caught in four o'clock November sadness,…

Overhead, a mile up from where we share our sandwiches and soft drinks, five slow hawks lazily gyre on the blank blue page of haze, loving their air and elevation. They see the two of us, maybe, as the slow mobile dots that they are, our motions among April's tattered hedges as otherworldy and deliberate…

My future is a memory of an old woman walking through winter streets, her thick black coat too heavy, the bundles she carries in each hand too heavy — never mind, I'll get her back to the house on the edge of the rail­ road flats, the tracks criss-crossing to the loading docks of the…

The grain elevators have stood empty for years. They used to feed an entire nation of children. Hunched in red leatherette breakfast nooks, fingers dreaming, children let their spoons clack on the white sides of their bowls. They stare at the carton on the table, a miniature silo with a kindly face smiling under a…