My voice disembodies. It will not stay where I am. Let it go, make friends with the distance, and where there was silence, let there be silence again, but different, more peculiar. For nothing must return exactly. Should my voice come back with the general wind saying “Distance didn’t want me”, I won’t claim it….
How can nothing be gold? My eyelid closes down the whole damn sky, in solid dark I see stars as perforations, loneliness as blues, what isn’t as a heavy weight, what is as nothing if it’s not ephemeral. The winter world could turn your corneas to ice, so let the sense be made. A summer…
I fly in sharp as Mies van der Rohe. I sit on the old couch at a raucous angle, toss out reels of the latest information but they look away, the kingfisher and his wife, my mother. Outside a jay is throwing seeds from his feeder. All around, the pines are black or pure white,…
The leafless trees are feathery, A foxed, Victorian lace, Against a sky of milk-glass blue, Blank, washed-out, commonplace. Between them and my window Huge helices of snow Perform their savage, churning rites At seventeen below. The obscurity resembles A silken Chinese mist Wherein through caligraphic daubs Of artistry persist Pocked and volcanic gorges, Clenched and…
for Joe and U. T. Summers Not of the wealthy, Coral Gables class Of traveler, nor that rarified tax bracket, These birds weathered the brutal, wind-chill facts Under our eaves, nesting in withered grass, Wormless but hopeful, and now their voice enacts Forsythian spring with primavernal racket. Their color is the elderly, moleskin gray Of…
for Allen Tate Through a loose camouflage Of maples bowing gravely to everyone In the neighborhood, and the soft, remote barrage Of waterfalls or whispers, a stippled sun Staggers about our garden, high On the clear morning wines of mid-July. Caught on a lifting tide Above a spill of doubloons…
1. Ulcerated tooth keeps me awake, there is such pain, would have to go to the hospital to have it pulled or would bleed to death from the blood thinners, but can’t leave Mother, she falls and forgets her salve and her tranquilizers, her ankles swell so and her bowels are so bad, she almost…
“Spain will surprise you.” — Suarez Tooting down the Gran Via, tossing out bundles of loose white leaflets, the campaign caravans roll. At nine in the evening leaflets snow on the heads and shoulders of Madrilenos at sidewalk cafes and cover their plates of hot, fried churros, while those in the paseo scuff through leaflets…
* For once she gets to go with big Cousin Beatie, who is starting her breasts. They’re at Uncle Charlie’s farm. Grandma says, “Ach, Kind, what will they think of next, enahow, the town school? Hunt the butterflies, yet!” But Beatie says, “It’s an Assignment.” Mother says, “Now go, first.” But she hates the outhouse,…
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