Poetry

I The morning train arrives at two. Be there. I’ll be carrying a briefcase, wearing heavy face lotion. If you get there before I do I’ll be in the second coach, compartment 5. I’ll be sitting in seat 3 facing a fat man. He’s following me. After the briefcase. Discretion. If I don’t descend the…

( – The Horse Latitudes are a region of unusual calm, lying in the North Atlantic Ocean. When sailing ships were becalmed there, the crew used to throw overboard cargo and horses. Thus lightened, the boat could take advantage of whatever wind there might be.) What does the sea want, my clothes, my keys, my…

for Martha A young woman rows to the middle of the river, and plays the violin her father gave her just before he died. She keeps time with her foot, making a wonderful noise on the bottom of the boat, like tapping on a rainbarrel, or a whale’s heartbeat. She plays until almost night. As…

(1) A lot of sky litters my view of home — oh Missed one, lost      Helium balloons spill off the horizon            & knock me backwards Jeolousy is too easy, this easy I miss      a better sentiment, ballooning pride could accomplish      Homesick for your hands, I miss the fragrance of my labors in them: devilish…

A baby, transparent blue, crawls up my shoulder, claws digging into me. I gave birth to it. And now I have to take the baby home and show the father. He won’t like it when he sees the film on his son’s eyes, when he sees this blue furless cat as his only inheritor.

We sat hunchbacked in the town cafe, elbows propped on grainy wood tables over our coffee. Listening to the recent news a story bloomed of a ghost seen at Badger Swamp. A local made us a map and talked of crops and weather. Seeing myself it was inevitable I had no money, my friend reached…

Look at me. Turn around. It’s four — thirty Saturday afternoon & this sick loose light that’s coming through the window wants to fall apart. It’s time for me to leave; & Christ, love, if I’ve got to go, this is the time. Pick up the books & help me divide the dishes, the glassware,…

I know nothing of the soil. I have never dug my hands into the earth or planted a seed. I was eighteen before I saw the Big Dipper. The flowers are like slide rules, alien instruments. No matter what I touch my hands are clean. Now, at night, when my wife and children are sleeping…

It is startling now how sexual the poems of 15, 16 were – not surprising, closet ached, but the almost classic images of bells and candles, apples hair and bridges came completely without calculation mixed with vague communistic slogans this obviousness of compulsive wildass lack crapola still carries the mysteries I must learn *     *      *…