Poetry

  • The Fly

    I killed a fly and laid my weapon next to it as one lays the weapon of a dead hero beside his body — the fly that tries to mount the window to its top; that was born out of a swamp to die in a bold effort beyond itself, and I am he that…

  • Homage to C.P. Cavafy

    From the very first evening we met, I knew I’d fallen helplessly, unredemptively, in love, becoming, in the next few months, chronically sick with longing, unable to sleep without first constructing elaborate courtship fantasies in which his sculpted, unblemished face appeared at my door, smiling, perfect lips parted. . . . What’s worse, we became…

  • Childhood

    I had a father of my own. How was it possible I was a father when I was yet a child of my father? I grew panicky and thought of running away, but I knew that if I did I would be scorned for it by my father, and so I stood still and listened…

  • Backyards

    1959, 1971, 1953, 1942 Snow seeded the road all night, fallout plowed to one side. On this windless morning, our superintendent is shaving a path to our door, a small portion of safety. . . . It’s 1983. My friends and I sleep and wake childless. From a swing I watched my father work on…

  • Orphan’s Song

    My mother’s house was made of clematis, I think. And Clematis is what Miss White calls Mother Ghost      all day. She tells her what to clean, says, Clematis, clean this. But I know Mother Ghost’s her name and she made up      three songs. We sing them every Sunday when Mr. Dearing visits. And when we…

  • And Rest With You

    You who gave me birth between your sturdy legs are dead. You who gave me food and drink and washed my clothes, ironed my shirts, took me shopping for a suit and coat are dead, I alive, as if to bring you back to daily acts of dusting with the mop and bending down to…

  • Gathered At The River

    For Beatrice Hawley and John Jagel As if the trees were not indifferent . . . A breeze flutters the candles but the trees give off a sense of listening, of hush. The dust of August on their leaves. But it grows dark. Their dark green is something known about, not seen. But summer twilight…

  • Inside the Mushroom

    Inside the mushroom storm clouds lean against each other emptying their insides. Blessings pour out over the tiny man on his way to work. Inside his overcoat are pockets of change, useless unless stolen away. Inside his hands he carries the shape of pockets, also the shape of a snowball with a stone hidden inside….