And this is where they met in secret. Follow my pointing finger. Now you see it quite empty. Those curtains that veiled it are rags, and the bed stripped bare. Here she used to play for him, there he would place his shoes in the corner. A piano from an upstairs room, wanton extravagance of…
In the train, in the dim glass, you, long dead, slip your face over mine. A mask, a shade, a past that is somewhere there, in the dark but not here, nor in any other scored-out street my dog-eared notebook holds, not here, your voice gone, your name caught in a fold of paper in…
Milk, rice, blueberries, plums— I’m laying out our weekend along the belt when the black sack of a stormcloud splits with a noise akin to anger or love and all the mothers look up from the strip-lit aisles as something larger than ourselves pours down, dances like baby-teeth in the grass outside. I’m frightened says…
To taste the salt of the stars in the sea. To love another more than oneself. To know this is to know everything. Do you see how the dusk and rain are one? Do our bodies come to nothing? Not how we fall in love, but how we fail in love. Ask aloud what comes…
It’s not just that he can’t remember you: he can’t recall any of it: the university, his other students. I rocked. I reeled. I was knocked off kilter, as if the child in me had stepped up to the blackboard and picked up the chalky duster and wiped her future lines away, even the bit…
I sketch the patternings of the sea: the iter- and reiteration of event. Similar; not the same. Lulled by dull predictability of my own selves’ dreary projections, I’ve confused the sacred with its name. Better scan fractals, rhyme sea with tree, tune into tantric syncopation my mortal gods, frantic and profane.
In moonlight the landscape was all blue: frit of cobalt, french ultramarine, far off hills of phthalocyanine and that gleam of light on lake water cerulean, shore rocks indigo, fugitive soldiers freezing to death on a Prussian ground, when my beloved turned on me his eyes of blue mercy: lapis lazuli, pupils of gold.
i. Ill …we are all ill, i.e., neurotic… —Sigmund Freud All ill, some very, some not so much or not so evidently—though perhaps for that all the more ill. Overall I’d say I was ill, but not quite ill all over as there’s still some small patch of well, a window sill of the psyche…
I avoid books about the present or last war, The war has never been. The air Is thinning itself for the breakup of winter. Breadths of breeze requiring sun Slice through any and every complaint To a dark kind of summer. Moon scuffed at its edges, brighter, Narrower, smears its self-improvement mirror- Image of giveaway…
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