Surely for this reason death must announce itself
again and again in such sour language
We are the ghosts of who comes after us
The stones is dead the stones that were too big
For human beings to move the angel saw
The humans in their freedom killed them both
And pounded with their bloody fists on the splintering gates
Last month, my father fell again and I walked through him for the third time.
In the Archaeological Museum there’s at least one artifact
for which the use is no longer known.
The thing you never dared to fear
will never make its way in here.
What I want is that
lost 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…
anger are more developed.
There were too many doors; there were
two 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 them
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 of
the 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…