The man on the corner, under the green light, he was wearing your hands he was smoking a cigarette he was counting to three before he crossed the street. I plan to spend the winter in hibernation. I do not remember the coldness of snow, I believe it crunches beneath the feet I believe the…
On the table landscape of my desolate kitchen in the middle of Ireland in the bleary damp of spring— butter rises like a greasy fort from a saffron yellow saucer. A washcloth, pale yellow is folded as a miniature tent over the toys the children ranged, militia-like around their breakfast. Doorways in Fitzwilliam Square bear…
I had been thinking about love, how hard It is to remember How to fall in love, How love has the frankness Of giving in and the firmness Of logic, and yet when I tried To discover this order I noticed, far down on the beach, The swimmers testing The water, which must have been…
Though you’re an old woman, I mean dead, I make plans to save you: arrange your voice to stream into my room, dig up your body, give you mouth to mouth. I sweep your house, crawl into your bed, croon in your ear. I insist you eat. I will you back with every tooth and…
There were flowers all summer long in my side pasture, anemones’ & poppies, all the largesse of a place tended a while. I buy them when I see them on the street in tin buckets from those rough men, the flower men. There is so much black I hadn’t seen before in their fast bloom,…
for M.H.O. That which I should have done I did not do. Here on the porch The beginning of spring Or end of winter Reflects off the screen. I stare at you Who now can barely see Even the light that sparks The tunnels of dust. You are blind, Prideful and sentimental …
the mind opens like milk the old bottles cream balanced on top paper caps snapped perfectly into glass rims tilts deeper to watch the dividing line stretch out union of ecru and bluewhite drop by drop remembers light glazing the bottle’s neck a woman’s shoulder learning to pour dream into a pitcher to drink from a cup…
White birches scream winter, their treetops fright wigs attenuated in the arc light. Small planes and radio-beacon spires dot the black sky like stars amid the cirrus patches scurrying north for denser cover. Out in the russia-flats between cities wheatlike anonymous marshgrass denies the complications of leavetaking or arrival. Towns pale the dark with self-importance….
My name is Pablo Picasso And my name rhymes In French, in Catalan, even in American As I travel, stopping often To call aloud the single word Lady I find my ghost is still feared. I’d like to answer: This was my body, I give it to you, And this my art, which is only…
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