Another Version
Our trees are aspens, but people Mistake them for birches; They think of us as characters In a Russian novel, Kitty and Levin Living contentedly in the country. Our friends from the city watch
Alive Together
Speaking of marvels, I am alive Together with you, when I might have been Alive with anyone under the sun, When I might have been Abelard’s woman Or the whore of a Renaissance pop
The Concert
In memory of Dimitri Mitropoulos The harpist believes there is music In the skeletons of fish The French horn player believes In enormous golden snails The piano believes in nothing And grins from ear
Monet Refuses The Operation
Doctor, you say there are no haloes Around the streetlights in Paris And what I see is an aberration Caused by old age, an affliction. I tell you it has taken me all my
Small Poem About The Hounds And The Hares
After the kill, there is the feast. And toward the end, when the dancing subsides And the young have sneaked off somewhere, The hounds, drunk on the blood of the hares, Begin to talk
Scenic Route
For Lucy, who called them “ghost houses.” Someone was always leaving And never coming back. The wooden houses wait like old wives Along this road; they are everywhere, Abandoned, leaning, turning gray. Someone always