The Poet Of Ignorance
Perhaps the earth is floating, I do not know. Perhaps the stars are little paper cutups Made by some giant scissors, I do not know. Perhaps the moon is a frozen tear, I do
The Inventory Of Goodbye
I have a pack of letters, I have a pack of memories. I could cut out the eyes of both. I could wear them like a patchwork apron. I could stick them in the
The Child Bearers
Jean, death comes close to us all, Flapping its awful wings at us And the gluey wings crawl up our nose. Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, Whirling off on a thumb or
In Excelsis
It is half winter, half spring, And Barbara and I are standing Confronting the ocean. Its mouth is open very wide, And it has dug up its green, Throwing it, throwing it at the
The Fury Of Guitars And Sopranos
This singing Is a kind of dying, A kind of birth, A votive candle. I have a dream-mother Who sings with her guitar, Nursing the bedroom With a moonlight and beautiful olives. A flute
Just Once
Just once I knew what life was for. In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood; Walked there along the Charles River, Watched the lights copying themselves, All neoned and strobe-hearted, opening Their mouths as wide
The Earth Falls Down
If I could blame it all on the weather, The snow like the cadaver’s table, The trees turned into knitting needles, The ground as hard as a frozen haddock, The pond wearing its mustache
The Break
It was also my violent heart that broke, Falling down the front hall stairs. It was also a message I never spoke, Calling, riser after riser, who cares About you, who cares, splintering up
The Gold Key
The speaker in this case Is a middle-aged witch, me- Tangled on my two great arms, My face in a book And my mouth wide, Ready to tell you a story or two. I
Bat
His awful skin Stretched out by some tradesman Is like my skin, here between my fingers, A kind of webbing, a kind of frog. Surely when first born my face was this tiny And
Portrait Of An Old Woman On The College Tavern Wall
Oh down at the tavern The children are singing Around their round table And around me still. Did you hear what it said? I only said How there is a pewter urn Pinned to
Flee On Your Donkey
Because there was no other place To flee to, I came back to the scene of the disordered senses, Came back last night at midnight, Arriving in the thick June night Without luggage or
The Big Boots Of Pain
There can be certain potions Needled in the clock For the body’s fall from grace, To untorture and to plead for. These I have known And would sell all my furniture And books and
Knee Song
Being kissed on the back Of the knee is a moth At the windowscreen and Yes my darling a dot On the fathometer is Tinkerbelle with her cough And twice I will give up
Courage
It is in the small things we see it. The child’s first step, As awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, Wallowing up the sidewalk. The first spanking when your