I live here, but do not live here. Trash blows through the sky tonight. Out of a snowy tree, the stars appear, drops of ice-water, they seem so pure. The tree petrifies. They are its parasites. I live here, but do not live here. `Fusion’ was the word I loved — its nuclear logic. The…
The air still freighted with her labor holds them both, cow, and calf creased in her flank, together, the simple alphabet of bond and bondage. Drawing close, I stared at her long profile, her huge eye brimming like a dark tear. In the shadows, heavy with scent of dung I saw Hera, Queen of Olympus,…
—Jonathan Edwards Edwards said we may go out of the world suddenly at any moment, when God pours his words before us & they freeze On roads, on bridges, new cold skin is laid on, flayed off by the wind’s whipping sentence. Driving, I hold my foot back: in due time it will…
A cold joy leaps from the orchard in early evening, when the pear and apple flower. Their petals enclose the nubs of the unformed fruits with a private dampness. Cattle drift through the fields like headstones, and soon the sky will spill its milky light down almost into the trees. Children are swimming in a…
Clyde, you were older than the other fourth graders; your chalky face set off with slick, black hair, your lips too red. When you smiled your mouth went thick as a slug, and when I turned my head in class you were always there like a dream I couldn’t wake from, bent over your work,…
Like the hand of her husband pressing, it goes beneath the earth, turns to straw the deep white roots. Over the creekbed come those who watch from yellowing trees, watch as she and the girl break down a length of berm and lay-in the man. Watched: the girl, who is last to shrink within her…
Contending in memoried turns under its date the tape winds a while longer to mull death over. The hearts of his children have cooled since then, ten years like ten young trees grown to shade. Once teen-aged boys on the hilled grass, young athletes out of shape to lift the coffin of one who dealt…
Hot, sticky night, the moving truck is at the door. Only a few weeks since your death. Your things arrive, the contents of your life spill over mine, disrupting my careful rooms. The moving men stumble up the stairs. I hear myself call, “Put the desk in the bedroom, gentlemen, please.” Already your elaborate courtesies…
Hope in Kingston drives a Volvo that rattles. We’ve missed our turn to the hotel: the soothing quiet flourishing palms, veranda columns, fresh paint and the bulldog asleep under the table while his Aussie master nurses the last night’s drink. No yams or jerky pork except on Wednesday by the pool, white jackets and a…
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