Poetry

A souvenir of this. If the moss and lichen stains Come clean, it may seem even too abstract, Not just the way old glass ages, but in that it contains What contained it, and was saved intact Knowing which side-valley we are in might Tell the story — a US medicine Jar, Or Japanese inkwell….

I’ve lost my only pair of glasses; without them, I’m practically blind and so my cadaverous optomitrist signals me into his dim office. “Have a seat,” he says. He means the chair with all the apparatus. But he’s pointing somewhere else— as if I should sit on the floor or maybe at his desk, gazing…

     When all the other trees are bare, why do those last few oak leaves cling up there            under the cold blue sky?            Don't they know when to die?      And to think: after the long freeze, when warmth revives and fills these empty trees            with the green stuff of spring,            they'll still…

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…

You can feel dusk suck at the heat and clatter and rhythms of earnest conversations, standing a minute with the silver pitcher, letting its sweat collect beneath your palm as a secret, something for yourself, like the thought of diving on a long breath through cool water, then rising to recover, to lie motionless, face…