Poetry

I love sweets,—            heaven would be dying on a bed of vanilla ice cream . . . But my true self is thin, all profile and effortless gestures, the sort of blond elegant girl whose                  body is the image of her soul. —My doctors tell me I must give up this ideal;…

They are like two houses Waiting for the same couple. They return late one night, Exhausted and hungry, Only to find their key Fits neither door and yet unlocks The darkness between them. They have mastered the art Of carefully taking each other apart, Of leaving themselves nothing but together, Of fitting piece after piece…

(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—…

General Slaughter declared that on the night after the terrific repulse of Burnside’s army at Fredericksburg, Stonewall Jackson had made the following suggestion: — “I am of the opinion that we ought to attack the enemy at once; And in order to avoid the confusion and mistakes so common in a night attack, I recommend…

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…