Poetry

long enough at the branches of the big maple tree a secret eye behind your real eyes will begin to see the face of a woman you don’t know who she is but she looks very familiar perhaps your mother or sister or a lover as the wind moves the branches her lips seem to…

Now, at the moment of death, your body reappears everywhere it’s been, so all its positions are simultaneous, united indistinguishably in a single mass that extends from the place you were born to where you’ve ended up. No one else is sensitive enough to you to see this. Because the path of your body intersects…

“Girl, it’s taken everything in me just to keep myself breathing.” Half then all our chickens picked off by coyotes, the pig gut he salted with strychnine, meant for coyotes, eaten by his own dogs, the burial of the dogs useless against the coyotes, the reburials, the coyote hunters shooting out goats, his stallion breaking…

Roblinus is our leading lit- erary pot-shotter (iconoclasm detoxifies a culture and Rob- linus is already a cultural monument) since he is virtuous the pot he shoots can hardly be grass so let us say that the shot must come from a pot which is used to relieve his (distress).

On one side a picture: tears boiling out of eyes that reflect flames. And a caption: “The frontier of the damned.” On the other side a note: “Thanks for the funeral. I’ve just arrived. Isn’t this beautiful? But it hurts. Write.”

Ron’s eager chainsaw and the firs falling combined their uproar with such startling silences there was no sense pretending to work at my desk. Granting the need, but unwilling to watch, I freed up all six culverts instead, clogged since spring when last the road was scraped— one of them so buried I had to…

after Hardy Why would she come to him, come to him, in such disguise to look again at him— look again— with vacant eyes— and why the pain still, the pain— still useless to them— as if to begin again— again begin— what had never been? *     *      * Why be persistently hurtful— no truth to…

lights in the twilight, lights of Solvay over the expanse of frozen snow-covered      lake, orange lights of the refineries, yellow and green and red lights of the neon along the      strip, lights as if undersea, the argon just coming to exist, all lights in the cold moisture of the grounded wind staggering across the lake…

Lily’s marking stock in the back where Walter sweeps and bets and makes boxes out of cardboard. Rose at the cash dreams Cracow. She’s got numbers on her arm. Eleanor threatens to call the union if my father calls her fat once more.           She’s fat. The code for thieves is nineteen; when Pauline shouts nineteen…