I received a very formal invitation: written on an anvil, her name flew by me. A soliloquy was given. Pieces of barbed wire were lifted, like flags. Of course, the necessary wafer salted with magnesium was passed around. When she first spoke I summoned immediately the bondsman for the indignant. Believe me, I never knew…
Let us remember that unsung breed who send my likes to you – wisely: Van Elliott, Bert Kelsey, Fred Weed of Roxbury Latin; and the likes of Feathereye Mykey my uncle did so unknowingly. Let me remember thresholds left here to cross yours there; remember the clutter of the place that’s Feathereye’s junkshop where I…
The rooms live on. When we finish, they continue, the walls creating the same space, holding the same air that held our bodies when we held our bodies, preserving the scene when we have abandoned it for some novel sunset, some television, dinner at a friend’s. The bed is forced into it. The lamps compose…
Cambridge Mass Rain falls outside. The bulb’s ablaze in the kitchen Blinds down. Winter. My woman stands upright from our bed. My daughter dreams in another country. It’s only tuesday. Beginning the week, nobody’s of humour. I am wooden. There’s no contact left, somehow, with old friends.
Sometimes when the sun is perfect as an apple in a still- life with oranges, and clouds are all coming home to me, like horses, the way I want them, and the city is far enough away for once, the ocean no longer a lost coffin to be prayed over constantly, I remember we will…
(for Lynne) 1. My fingers will not function when your eyes are closed. They stop at the letters of your shrugging shoulders; your clothes whisper: “There are words better left alone.” At odd hours I rob you blind and hurry home carrying the ill-gotten loot as if it were the history of future civilizations. I…
POEM thicken volition cushion Tom Raworth the lace teenagers’ orphanage Victor Bockris SUNSET lie down in yellow flowers it’s the whole world Andrew Wylie POEM FOR STRAWBERRY You can turn the pages while Mommy changes you. Gailyn Saroyan A Musical Poem ABCDEFG Davi Det Hompson a little thomas hardy Aram Saroyan
After we had burned on the water a while, amid the chopper-borne shouts, flares, and thrashing rope ladders, we put into quiet, dark rooms. I couldn’t touch you through my walls – my nails screeled into chines. Why had they bored lights in me like that? You must have known we were set on sand….
The long black whip cracked at the wind. And the handle. . . If I held it in my right hand, my thumb would cross between her breasts and the rest of my fingers would embrace her back and come around to rest on the inside of her right thigh. But now, her arms are…
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