for Lloyd The day is so heavy movement is nearly impossible; our clothes stick to our thighs, to the granite bench—a sweatiness without athletics or the fever of intimacies. Across from us, Miles Standish, Evangeline, and Hiawatha gaze blankly in bas relief. There are others, too, characters I’m too dazed to name. The pedestal which…
The curved fragment lies among shards and wild crocus, an artifact unearthed near the stopped road. Bulldozers are idling in the sun. Identify, says the Chief. We have come across fields marked with flags to the place where archeologists do their slow dance on rubble, up the sliced hill, coins of Antiochus IV warming their…
All middle age invisible to us, all age passed close enough behind to seize our napehairs and whisper in a voice all thatch and smoke some village elder warning, some rasped-out Remember me . . . Mute and grey in her city uniform (stitch-lettered JUVENILE), the matron just pointed me to a locker, and went…
Snow trims the dead elm and the black fire escape. Against the chill sky, the red roof burns through a skim of white. Bills and sympathy notes accumulate behind the flat door. The history of the house is hidden to the eye—the alarm in the attic, the glitter of a decade’s argument. Standing at my…
1. The dark side of the moon, no atmosphere between us. Looks freeze, shattering to shards that pierce my scalp and the skin of my arms. I am exposed here in a decolleté black nightgown with see-through lace in appropriate places and an embroidered red rose. He wears a regulation space suit, head in a…
If I needed new material I could go to Texas: there’s a lot there, for sure. I could fly to Dallas and buy a sport coat: maybe there’s some kind of sport coat that is distinctly from Texas, and I’d buy it in Dallas and wear it to a Cowboys game. I’d root and root…
Walking, late at night or just around dawn, I stop for a few minutes outside a friend’s house and wonder about him and his wife upstairs sleeping, not trying the weather like me. I know they keep usual hours; in their house down the hill from me, I see their lights go out most midnights…
She waited while he drank his loss away, now makes him drink his medicine, won’t let him stay alone. It could be me, she says, his saint, his caryatid. She grows gardenias in a window box two floors above the garbage. She is the Minnesota farm, the miles she walked to school, black bread she…
He sits there, staring into the keyboard— baggy rented tux; sagging shoulders; limp hair nearly brushing the keys— hesitating to begin. His eyes glazed, as if he’d been up a week on Coca Cola and pills; a Coke bottle (giant-size) half-empty…
No products in the cart.