Last month, my father fell again and I walked through him for the third time.
In the Archaeological Museum there’s at least one artifactfor which the use is no longer known.
The thing you never dared to fearwill never make its way in here.
What I want is thatlost shoebox full of faded snapshots back.
When I knew you, I had time for mine.
The sun itself a larger bird, its wings manufacturing the solar wind
Tragically, he believes he can mend his wounds with his poetry.
Turbulent paradise, thirsting.
People are different, too
Sometimes I can hear the buried stream.
The detaching icebergs crushed the bees
who used to fly over conference rooms.
From the Review, Autumn, 1930.
From the Review, January, 1992.
Where lyric meets narrative
Why has a kind of prosaic poetry suddenly become so appealing?
this land, while snow turns all to immigrants …
Lately I’ve been moved by how
the skeletons were found …
Where did he go? I asked.
Where do the missing ever go?
For now, the sting of being—
like an ambulance
playing the tune
you cannot name…
People withoutanger are more developed.
There were too many doors; there weretwo right in the middle of a hallway. Some you couldn’t open without closing others facing them.
Thirty white people wearing white and posing
by the sea. Actually, two of themwear blue…
The pigeons ran around in berserk patterns outside.Our warm, clandestine complicity had the force of a new actuality.
With me, life becomes sweeter, so she loses some ofthe ability to defend herself.
When we met later in the alley to take out the trash, we would reliably turn into two lumps of fear.
I hate Lyndon Johnson until I love Lyndon Johnson…
the video girls. Tell them to twerk to this …
I had been raised as a Reform Jew—in other words, an agnostic worshipper of narrative …
My husband says he doesn’t really likeshort stories, says only novelscapture the human experience.
I missed my father. I ate wax in my impatience.