I have banked the fires of my body into a small but steady blaze, here in the kitchen where the dough has a life of its own, breathing under its damp cloth like a sleeping child; where the real child plays under the table, pretending the tablecloth is a tent, practicing departures; where a dim…
The eye of the stove is as red as the sun sunk to the frigid ground. An efficient sky wastes no time turning pink; the Dog Star scratches through the cobalt of near-dark. I stare at the slim silhouettes of trees pawed by the wind, & the house rocks, dizzy as the deck of a…
Between the hand in the child’s trouser pocket And his face tilted toward the sky, blank as the sky, The man could see a question forming. Small White clouds hung above the irregular Chimneys the length of the avenue. The sidewalk Was empty, except for a woman at the bus-stop Rhythmically slapping a newspaper against…
I sit in my stockyard of a room: a whole trainload of footwear, a desk of paper innuendos, correspondence with the invalids. . . . Dear Sympathy, One leg, an entire memory bank forgotten, where have you flown? Better to float on a raft out to sea: there’s the great ocean to swallow me up,…
More and more I think about you, and the others — your likes and unlikes — who chose to harden their difference until it was so dense, it would shine of itself in the dark; lived narrow into towers, to the faces of wives and children loved more steadily than most; turned their even-planed desks…
Love, the flower bed we tended Has grown into a congregation Of tufted old men and arthritic women, The men’s beards scattered by evening winds, The red and yellow dresses of the women Disintegrating Into the earth. And though we were gentle and steady, We called attention to ourselves In every corner of the world….
This fog over the body and mind, this sleeping too long on the grill of the mattress while morning pours in. . . . It’s ten below. The sun is shining but it’s too cold to go out. The children, true, are bundled up, drive their snowmobiles over the ice with a swishing sound, a…
(Ormos Athinios, Thira) Morning comes, and the baked look of rising early on people’s faces; or evening, and the cool with a trace of rot in it lifts off the face of the waves. And in the concrete cafe, the simple blank shoulders of fascination, changed in no year; with emptiness in their mouths —…
My handwriting’s big, like grazing cattle, I’m learning cursive on the dock The summer that polio twists my mother’s legs. I write as she reads me the fable Of the prince who was sleepless for 100 years. There’s always a broken heart And I know sleepless nights are already a spell. White gauze, the curtains…
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