1. I keep listening. Where are the words? I wander between stations. The damnation of the beloved Keeps me in fascination. Who shall be made real? 2. Will you arrive With your soft dresses Rolled away in your suitcase? Will you speak elegantly of clouds, Of forgotten shapes? Will you tell me with your subtlety…
When his small skiff returned alone, like a horse who’s lost its rider, the relatives sat down on stones by the shore and waited for the tide to bring him, also. He had wanted to row back, singular and drunk, from a wedding on a neighbor island, just a few real miles away across the…
everything i have i feed the house he eats it up, starved money from readings paint yesterday he swallowed half a grant what i’d saved to fly out of the snow that eats his windows my lover is quite jealous of his mouth put it on the market he spits in his sleep as the…
Once words stunned the field, like sudden rain, as if Rain were the name of a woman, whose eyes drenched yours alive in the full torrent of saying exactly what she wanted to say. Then husbandry took over: the dry stare of a dry bush, piling one odd rock on top of another odd rock…
(—for Gary Wilson & in memorium: Kenneth Wilson, 1943-1977) The brutal shift: one minute present—then a week on the delicate liferaft of coma—and the next: past. You honestly begged for him a few more diamonds of breath, until the last luminant exhalation exhaled. Your brother gone and the long O sounds of your own…
i’m still thin and high on having the biopsy negative tho i don’t know where to go after the artists place in the trees The husband who will leave and leave until he can’t come home is back after the first time pleading lyn his nagging is a sticky lullaby i almost don’t hear thru…
We have learned a Mandarin language, an ingrown puzzle binding us to talk to one another— the many ones and others—to disengage with unfixing clarity our actual selves as figures from their grounds, the sheets of glass or broad leaves that hold rain like beads of sweat on a high arched, double arched, romanesque brow…
Killing anything was pure accident. A dumb stalker, a worse shot—I went almost daily, to the woods. A favorite prey was slow and shallow: a brook. I’d say, as it moved languidly: Don’t move, you rascal! And when it did, of course, as it does, I’d shoot. I liked that: no wound, or at least…
First, let us move away, but leave behind us The grand piano, the Steuben glass, books and Phonograph records, what might distract us, And since this is a real journey—surrounded By stars and their shadows and what is beyond Them—we will not travel. We sit all day and night and watch the moths Eat our…
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