The gendarme came to tell me you had hung yourself on the door of a rented room like an overcoat like a bathrobe hung from a hook; when they forced the door open your feet pushed against the floor. Inside your skull there was no room for us your circuits forgot me. Even in Paris…
1 The boats go by in another world. I am living on shore with one sparrow. He sings the whole day outside my door, but when I am quiet, late mornings in bed, or sitting at my desk unmoving, he comes nearer, bangs on the stove-pipe, waking an echo to ask if I’ve gone. He…
for RS, 1921-1981 Blunder slips at heel. Scald and slather. Flake and sore. Nothing slick as shit. At 23, your hair turned the color of old tenement, your tongue sweet as a cat’s. If you gave yourself nine lives, who could blame you? Every day, dawn leaks down the void of lights at Pontiac Assembly….
Someone came in to ask how are you only I couldn’t quite hear the words, I thought he was asking who. who are you? so I started to say my name’s Jordan, only I never got past the vowel I’m Joe just Joe call me Joe then I stopped to think maybe I really am…
Then the mind is a white room behind the eyes — the heart beats, far below like an animal breathing quietly in sleep, emptying over and over. If anyone comes please say I am not at home. Bones are a glass staircase I climb without looking down. A hand held to the light, glows red…
IV. Most of the old buildings are gone now — you can blame fire, or progress, or both. Forensic Hall, known to some as “Frenzy,” built by the students in 1874: demolished before the first World War: Forensic and dancing — thermometer two degrees above zero. The cotillion: Five couples plus two stags, the hall…
The boats like huge bright birds sail back when someone calls them; the small campers struggle out and climb the hill to lunch. I see the last dawdler vanish in a ridge of trees. The whole valley sighs in the haze and heat of noon. Far out a fish astounds the air, falls back into…
It’s not a month for Republicans, All business, baffled inside their suits The color of moles. The wind Shakes out the blue hair of matrons Who suck their thin cheeks pale as if At the mercy of pigfeet and banjos. I’m confused too but take heart in The first crocus wobbling out Like the precarious…
— for J.H.W. The house sits like a hat too small for the bald hill newly scraped and planted with tentative grass. In the picture you took to ponder, to decide whether to buy, the poplar that plumes the ground like a giant swaying peacock feather is almost invisible, a sprouting barely alive. Scotch pine…
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