Poetry

(for Jane) “I fly to my dreams from my bed at night” sauntered Jane/ through a conversation.      I the wind,      the scarf of a trailing sky      swoop on the figure appearing      as a calander wearing its months      back to front, while the weeks dropped out      with the days listening to the song      that the birds…

Just as I was about to call your name The phone rang And since I was alone I knew it must At last be you I thought: the times are trying to change us Into trees in the valley of the shadow of joy But all the blessings which flow from memories of you Seem…

Random frames from the flow of time Are dealt like hands of solitaire Or perhaps a fortune being told. An unknown woman in Victorian dress Is sitting, back-turned by a lake, Blond hair across her shoulder; A cat drinks water from a tap. The smiling faces of strangers and friends Arrange themselves in no strict…

I In learning a foreign language Leave a red mark by each word You look up in the dictionary When you look up a word And find a red mark by it Cut off one joint of your finger With the dullest possible knife II In mathematics try to remember That the answer is always…

Nous five-o’clockerons àminuit. “Will you have aspirin in your ink?” “Thank you. I prefer it black.” I bled a little into the milk to give it a character of my own. “I see you have a character of your own.” “I like the taste of my own overripe fruit.” We were silent while he sipped…

it’s lonely in here loneliness is hard            it’s frightening to think one might always be alone. One      be alone forever there are the window sounds      wall sounds            neighbors how can we be close together      and not in one another’s arms?            the lucky people who have found lovers grow spoiled & demanding

no wrong but to harm others? *     *      * what harms others? *     *      * there is nothing but your (my) naked being. anyone can put his hand on my cock or her tongue up my ass. *     *      * if it feels good, it is good? it might feel good to crack someone’s sky. *     *      * then…

I keep going to my own funeral with a spade to help the gravedigger and a transistor radio playing pop and rock to put on the side of the grave because I might get down among the dead and I am afraid of the bones. What if they should get up and squeak No room…

We were learning How to live Out here, Out of nothing. Our claim On this raw country Was simply having Nowhere else to go. We found These lands Could destroy The nerves we lived on: The sick ironic harmonica Playing on the fire at night. The immensity of those nights. The tired roseate Spectacular That…