Poetry

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…

My uncle believed he had A double in another Universe right here at hand Whose life was the opposite Of his in all things — the man On the other side of zero. Sometimes they would change places. Not in dreams, but for a moment In waking, when my uncle Would smile a certain sly…

Dear Mother dear, Now this here’s an Edda, which in Icelandic means “greatgrandmother.” Snorri’s Skáldskaparmál: well, Aristotle’s Poetix it ain’t, not by a googolplex of parsecs, no ma’am; nor is the Gylfaginning any Iliad or Exodus. But our nothern temper (born of winter nights on the iced bridge, bred and borne on the vast namelessness…

Lovers passed us like movie stars. I am trembling but the terror of what I want to do is what beckons me to commit the crime. And every poster in town reveals my craven design. I look for you. There is only vertigo and bile in my throat. Fear: to crawl like a baby lost…

During my father’s walk, he went underground to pin down rails, pushed his back against cement walls when trains slammed by. The day’s hammering done, he headed for the circle of gray light. His father first went down into the tunnels and in his dotage bragged of breaking the 1911 strike by staring the men…