Poetry

(For Peter Taylor) Southcall— a couple in passage, two Tennessee cardinals in green December outside the window dart and tag and mate— young as they want to be. We’re not. Since my second fatherhood and stay in England, I am a generation older. We are dangerously happy— our book-bled faces streak like red birds, dart…

The old lady’s face. Who knows whose it was? The bus slid by me. Who in the world knows me? She was amazed, amazed. Can death really take me? The bus went away. It took the old lady away.

A girl pushes a bicycle through tall grass, through overturned garden furniture, water rising to her ankles. Cups without handles sail upon the murky water, saucers with fine cracks in the procelain. At the upstairs window, behind damask curtains, the steward’s pale blue eyes follow. He tries to call; shreds of yellow note paper float…

Leaving a taxi at Victoria I saw my own face sharp focused and smaller watching me from a puddle or something I held—your face on my copy of your Collected Stories— seamed with dread and smiling. . . old short-haired poet of the first Depression— now back in currency. My thinking is talking to you—…

All your life you have been standing on the edge of a cliff. Below the cliff, a river. Snow the other side. You kneel holding a harvest of roots. You remove your artificial eye. You erase darkness. Light. For the first time you see your feet have turned to stone. You have become part of…

In the pinch of time, facing an upright piano under its paisley throw you sport a jet and agate necklace around your freckled throat. You were mad for costume jewelry — and better if it was red, and soon you ran off to marry Handsome Jack. I strain my ears after your songs, you had…

When the moon rose she rose, an effigy hung by her yellow hair, a long-necked bird trumpeting doom. Old Hag! We tossed her to the dogs and still she would not die. She mapped our lives. Slit Eyes! How she could stare. And far in the distance of our sleep something wanted to strangle itself….

I had been in love with you three years before. . . Driving from Maine to more Maine friendly — chatty we were both relieved to get as far away                 as possible from your neighbors who had                 spoiled our dinner with all sorts of                 insinuating and unstated                 demands that we resolve…

come in light variable and with calm good weather most of the time on the floor of my house silence a round a pond the bush a hush hilldog Bark and horseprint calm cold like a crescent moon a hunter rode alone through snow possessed of supernatural powers composed of rags and tatters Forest closed…