Poetry

Vigilance

                       You stand waiting. You listen.                        At your back the house is still,            between the tickings of clocks and timbers.                  Beneath the rough soles of your feet you can feel the cellar stretching to its foundations —            silence in the stone, the furnace brooding.            …

The Widow’s Letter

You chose me for widow not for wife transferring your pain on schedule I turned darker you turned paler on schedule. You chose me for elegy. This spring the confused migrations collide with the smokeless chimney. I air myself out with the mildewed wardrobe you left hung like an armory. Oh you’ve done it, you’ve…

Hand Saw

Through the soft pulp of farmed pine, the saw moves with the incessant logic of progress. Why stand up when you can fall down? Why be a tree when you can be a house? Here there is nothing to hope for but branches. As the saw works, it whispers of soft flanks weathering in lumberyards….

Plane

This one does its work by returning over and over to the place where it began until even memory bears no splinters. Flatness, flatness, the plane dreams as it sweeps down every plank envisioning unsown fields, boxcars, Unitarian churches. “Lie down,” sings the plane. “Lie down and be the same as all the rest.”

Sorting It Out

At the table she used to sew at, he uses his brass desk scissors to cut up his shirt.                             Not that the shirt was that far gone: one ragged cuff, one elbow through;                               but here he is, cutting away the collar she long since turned.                                  What gets to him finally, using his…

A Poem for Winnipeg

At the confluence of the Red River and the Assiniboine, exactly two hundred miles and fifty northwards from Fargo, North Dakota, the city of Winnipeg, Manitoba; from the Cree word win-nipiy meaning `murky water’, not, as I had thought, from a peg, or some other such, which had once belonged to Winnie. And the cold…

Hunt

On the inside edge of suburbs nothing approaches bear. Laying rubber around a one-way block, trying to find a man named Evanshevski, I stop to ask a man if he is him. He promises to help. Nothing approaches bear. No way anyway to go for help. We drive around, trying to find a one-way girl…