Poetry

  • Mahler

    It is Because I am Obsessed with This thing. . . . It overtakes me. Do I conjure it Out of space, Scratching its Sound on paper In the tilted gazebo? I only know I Do hear it — there. I am brushed by The precise flit Of its shadow, Enervated by Each visitation. Like…

  • Poem on a Surface

    We trace ourselves in order to omit the tracery tense unfolding a flesh offering a limit We travel the ellipse of ourselves each inhabited One inside the other limitless warm surface & not wanting knowing the limit tracing the arrival We come together One orb One & One We fold together unfolding rhythm of our…

  • Upon Going Into Prison

    Warders in familiar uniforms, peaked caps, and badges– greying family men–tag and number these articles out of the prisoner’s hand-sewn, pig-skin bag: Two sweaters of hanks and hanks of hair, hand- spun and knitted–blonde into black, red into brown– völkische patterns; three pearl-grey chemises with tongue-like ties; one austere silk foulard from Paris, the couturier…