Milkweed
Remember how unimportant They seemed, growing loosely In the open fields we crossed On the way to school. We Would carve wooden swords And slash at the luscious trunks Until the white milk started
Told
The air lay soffly on the green fur Of the almond, it was April And I said, I begin again But my hands burned in the damp earth The light ran between my fingers
Something Has Fallen
Something has fallen wordlessly And holds still on the black driveway. You find it, like a jewel, Among the empty bottles and cans Where the dogs toppled the garbage. You pick it up, not
The Negatives
On March 1, 1958, four deserters from the French Army of North Africa, August Rein, Henri Bruette, Jack Dauville, & Thomas Delain, robbed a Government pay station at Orleansville. Because of the subsequent Confession
The Return
All afternoon my father drove the country roads Between Detroit and Lansing. What he was looking for I never learned, no doubt because he never knew himself, Though he would grab any unfamiliar side
Holding On
Green fingers Holding the hillside, Mustard whipping in The sea winds, one blood-bright Poppy breathing in And out. The odor Of Spanish earth comes Up to me, yellowed With my own piss. 40 miles
Making Light Of It
I call out a secret name, the name Of the angel who guards my sleep, And light grows in the east, a new light Like no other, as soft as the petals Of the
The Grave Of The Kitchen Mouse
The stone says “Coors” The gay carpet says “Camels” Spears of dried grass The little sticks the children gathered The leaves the wind gathered The cat did not kill him The dog did not,
I Won, You Lost
The last of day gathers In the yellow parlor And drifts like fine dust Across the face of The gilt-framed mirror I ofien prayed to. An old man’s room Without him, a room I
Making It Work
3-foot blue cannisters of nitro Along a conveyor belt, slow fish Speaking the language of silence. On the roof, I in my respirator Patching the asbestos gas lines As big around as the thick
My Fathers, The Baltic
Along the strand stones, Busted shells, wood scraps, Bottle tops, dimpled And stainless beer cans. Something began here A century ago, A nameless disaster, Perhaps a voyage To the lost continent Where I was
The Rains
The river rises And the rains keep coming. My Papa says It can’t flood for The water can run Away as fast as It comes down. I believe Him because he’s Papa And because
Clouds
1 Dawn. First light tearing At the rough tongues of the zinnias, At the leaves of the just born. Today it will rain. On the road Black cars are abandoned, but the clouds Ride
Animals Are Passing From Our Lives
It’s wonderful how I jog On four honed-down ivory toes My massive buttocks slipping Like oiled parts with each light step. I’m to market. I can smell The sour, grooved block, I can smell
Black Stone On Top Of Nothing
Still sober, César Vallejo comes home and finds a black ribbon Around the apartment building covering the front door. He puts down his cane, removes his greasy fedora, and begins To untangle the mess.