Poetry

I read the brown sentences of my great-grandfather, As if—not even as if—but actually Looking into a brown photograph as old As his writing is. In his sentences Two innocent naked young men, Methodists, Bathe in the morning in the Rapahannock River. Fredericksburg, Virginia, Eighteen Sixty-Four. Brother Pierson and I went out and bathed in…

“I was Latin, born to a noble Tuscan; Guiglielm Aldobrandesco was my father, though you, perhaps, have never heard his name.      The gallant deeds and antique pedigree of my forebears fostered an insolence so great that I ignored our common mother      and held all men in scorn, persisting till I died of it—as know the…

* I 1 Dear little insect —they called you Mosca, I don’t know why— this evening as I was reading Deutero-Isaiah in the near-dark you reappeared beside me; but you didn’t have glasses, you couldn’t see me, and I couldn’t recognize you in the dusk without their glitter. 2 No glasses or antennae, poor insect,…

For whom do I speak, now, so far away from home? For whom do I write, now, so far away from myself? I speak for the experience of the flux I’ve become; I write for the concrete to fill in the distances from the house on the road I lived on, from the warm home…

     Even a Pyrrhonist Who knows only that he can never know      (But adores a paradox) Would admit it’s getting dark. Pale as a wrist-      Watch numeral glow, Fireflies build a sky among the phlox,      Imparting their faint light Conservatively only to themselves.      Earthmurk and flowerscent Sweeten the homes of ants. Comes on the night      When…

1. Georgia Black train flying north, Rita’s hat Awfully large and with a white ribbon, Legs crossed, cheap novel in her lap, Fingers casual on a bright necklace; Someone across the aisle is snapping Newspaper pages and blowing cigar smoke— This game of American spaces is tiresome: Trains may pound paradise into honeymoons And politics,…

CHARLES and XENIA are discussing them At her place. Interrupted solitaire, Fern, teapot, humdrum harmonies from where Blinks a green cat’s-eye, the old FM. XENIA: Now no. But when I am child my parents Are receiving them. Emigrés I think very old, Distinguished. Spectacles with rims of gold. Clothes stained by acid of expérience. Forever…

Who shares your room, I wish I knew. A centipede, with eyes of blue? She will not see me snooping here To count each slipper, boot and shoe. Our little dresser must think it queer To hold her panties pink and sheer. I’ll bet her ass will never quake The coldest evenings of the year….

Las puertas del año se abren, como las del lenguaje, hacia lo desconocido. Anoche me dijiste:      mañana habrá que trazar unos signos, dibujar un paisaje, tejer una trama sobre la doble página del papel y del día. Mañana habrá que inventar, de nuevo, la realidad de este mundo. Ya tarde abrí los ojos. Por el…