Sunday Afternoons
I sit at home At my desk alone As I used to do On many sunday afternoons When you came back to me, Your arms ached for me, And your arms would close me
Flying at Forty
You call me Courageous, I who grew up Gnawing on books, As some kids Gnaw On bubble gum, Who married disastrously Not once But three times, Yet have a lovely daughter I would not
The End of the World
Here, at the end of the world, The flowers bleed As if they were hearts, The hearts ooze a darkness Like india ink, & poets dip their pens in & they write. “Here, at
Colder
He was six foot four, and forty-six And even colder than he thought he was James Thurber, The Thirteen Clocks Not that I cared about the other woman. Those perfumed breasts with hearts Of
The Artist as an Old Man
If you ask him he will talk for hours How at fourteen he hammered signs, fingers Raw with cold, and later painted bowers In ladies’ boudoirs; how he played checkers For two weeks in
Ordinary Miracles
Spring, rainbows, Ordinary miracles About which Nothing new can be said. The stars on a clear night Of a New England winter; The soft air of the islands Along the old Spanish Main; Pirate
The Poet Fears Failure
The poet fears failure & so she says “Hold on pen What if the critics Hate me?” & with that question She blots out more lines Than any critic could. The critic is only
For an Earth-Landing
the sky sinks its blue teeth Into the mountains. Rising on pure will (the lurch & lift-off, The sudden swing Into wide, white snow), I encourage the cable. Past the wind & crossed tips
Nursing You
On the first night Of the full moon, The primeval sack of ocean Broke, & I gave birth to you Little woman, Little carrot top, Little turned-up nose, Pushing you out of myself As
Letter to My Lover After Seven Years
You gave me the child That seamed my belly & stitched up my life. You gave me: one book of love poems, Five years of peace & two of pain. You gave me darkness,