Poetry

The leap from three adjectives to an object is impossible. The change was laughable though surprising in the 24 years between my first and second visit to you in Washington— the first rung of the ladder, the sharpest pencil line, far from my ABC’s at Potomic School, Miss Locke and Miss Gay. My arms reached…

are used to mount hinges on doors alongside the melon ball scoop hard-boiled egg slicer jodhpurs, corn-skewers tuning fork, grapefruit knife kaopectate nut pick they wait for their single summons practising saying “coming!” as a matter of fact, consider grinding stones washboards napkin rings who may never again be called those with particular adaptations Latin…

Who was Athena’s pet— Be glad you’re dead. That you should see the shadow fleshen! The shade caught in the arachnid net—      This dust was Randall and they say      That almost on his lucky day      He found his only luck to be      The dark concrete of 53 I was Athena’s pet. . . . Send…

In the exaggeration of distance between the hotel chapel and the body poised a foot beneath the ceiling’s dust, an incorruptible levitation, an axe in the public air pointing away from the knife’s hilt over the heart.      Murder, from the alluvial elbow to the diagonal breviary. For us, a perfect focus unaware of conspiracy, distracted…

(The Ribbon to Norwood, January 5, 1971)      Will all be well?      To outfly the snow. Waking in the dark . . . . He kneels at the hearth, Radiates the ceiling . . . . No. Older than that. Old. My father lights no fires; I expect no hearth. But today I go, My day…

Because the top line hurts, flashes garish red glints off galactic petards, it is the night sky. The cupola-shadowed building whose one lit window this midnight is, for instance, the editor’s open office window, could be any government building or whorehouse that from another neighborhood slices your life. The office wall is the office wall…

In the dark, I picked up a nail to write you a letter on a piece of wood. The iron point of midnight will failed me, I couldn’t send it. I am brave like Joan of Arc in dreams, but things shrink back into place when I awake. There are some tired flowers here with…

     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,…