Poetry

Wanting leads to worse than oddity. The bones creak like bamboo in wind, and strain toward a better life outside the body, the life everything has that isn’t human. Feel the chair under you? What does it want? Does lust bend it silly like a rubber crutch? Tell a tree about the silky clasp of…

She re-enters her life the way a parachutist re-enters the coarser atmosphere of earth, exchanging the sensual shapes of clouds for cloud-shaped trees rushing to meet her, their branches sharp, their soft leaves transitory. She notices smells, the scent of pines piercing the surface of memory— that dark lake submerged in pines in which her…

There — but for the clutch of luck — go I. At daybreak — in the pitch, arctic fog of a February      daybreak — Shoulderlength helmets in the watchtowers of the      concentration camp Caught me out in the intersecting arcs of the swirling      searchlights: There were at least a zillion of us caught out there…

In dreams silent secret and unafraid I steal away to find you I’ve divined Your wish to see me I steal away to find You in a forest digging with a spade I touch your shoulder feeling my heart race To think how glad you’ll be but slowly quite Slowly you turn blindly to me…

Emptying the teapot of tealeaves I moped at the kitchen      sink: Thinking of thinkers who think that they are the only      thinkers who think. The teapot was red enamel and the daylight outside was      dark And the appletree at the end of my cabbagepatch was      peering back up at my cottage Quite unable to budge…

Snow melting when I left you, and I took This fragile jaw we’d found in melting snow Two springs before I left, beside a brook Where raccoons washed their hands. And this, I know, Is that raccoon we’d watched for every day. Though at the time her wild human hand Had gestured inexplicably, I say…

Here I am on a cross-channel ferry: I have run away from Co. Kerry: I could not stand it another day: But well I know there will be hell to pay. Girls in Dublin reading “Roots”: Girls in London reading “Roots”: Girls in Paris reading “Roots”: Eyed by silent herds of screaming brutes. Outside the…

for L. I can almost see the prairie where you are— the flowering grasses and the cones of white blossoms on the horse chestnut trees. The horizon calms you after months of cities. I imagine your eyes seek that line as if you had cast it out over water. A few nights ago, I saw…

     Spain frightened you. Spain where I felt at home. The blood-raw light, The oiled anchovy faces, the African Black edges to everything, frightened you. Your schooling had somehow omitted Spain. The wrought-iron grille, death and the Arab drum. You did not know the language, your soul was empty Of the signs, and the welding light…