Poetry

This metal blooms in the dark of Rome’s Daylight. Of how many deaths Is Rome the bright flowering? See, the dead bloom in the dark Of the Fosse Ardeatina. The black Breath of the war has breathed on them; Shields gleam, and helmets, in the memory. Their flowering is being true To their own nature;…

Over Jordan she made her peace. This place had pace—its own. It was like La Puta since life adrift can seem futile. This isn’t to say she didn’t like it where the winds of fortune blew harder than desire. On the other hand, she was assured she couldn’t choose a life, drunk or not, since…

Untouchable mother a smirk instead of a smile a ragged lip— I left you kneeling dirty brown water dripping over your hands I took what I wanted: my own arrangements on a clean table under the window lavish chasteness of one rose for the moon a perfect cup and saucer for a dainty tea Your…

The rolls of the river unfold, trees come green, birds sing, cleverly fish keep deep unseen; water is blue, is blue to green, idle lines, worm and fly keep Dennis asleep by his pole. Flowers will lean when breezes flow, honey bee, rising seed; he thought there would never be snow. Birds shake a wing,…

(for Peter Taylor) The sad, because unspeaking, smiles overbrimming among too many people known too slightly but halfway loved, in large rooms where the light shades and flickers on the untended gardens, vines and harpstrings, of the old wallpaper . . . Whom do we speak to when we speak on these stages we make…

The sun’s leached everything, the last dream of heading for some Greek island, the sea blue there as in March, or October. The rain gave out over a month ago. In mind are only the other summers, and my hands, calloused, fit the hands of a friend drowned eight, nine years back in the Wisconsin…

Of course the family’d call him Todd, the tie to someone’s maiden life and short, masculine. And of course he’d be blond, fragile in his Confederate uniform. Todd Carter, over the mantel, age twenty-five. Came riding up in the Battle of Franklin, one hundred feet from his own front door to six bullets. They dragged…

I. It was the first time a really sumptuous girl had taken                                                                  his hand, and Rome lay before them: the Spanish Steps’ Cinderella night-piece, dream-whitecaps falling/rising to Bernini’s drowning, monstrous boat . . . They left behind his more glamorous, her more dowdy,            …

In Durer’s Melancholia a spell nails things to the floor, nothing can travel. The woman with idle wings sits to brood, laurel leaves in her hair. Some tools are spewed at her feet—hammer, saw, nails. A marble block in the background waits for a chisel. In the clutter of the room the hourglass glares like…