The Mercy
The ship that took my mother to Ellis Island Eighty-three years ago was named “The Mercy.” She remembers trying to eat a banana Without first peeling it and seeing her first orange In the
Bitterness
Here in February, the fine Dark branches of the almond Begin to sprout tiny clusters Of leaves, sticky to the touch. Not far off, about the length Of my morning shadow, the grass Is
How Much Earth
Torn into light, you woke wriggling On a woman’s palm. Halved, quartered, Shredded to the wind, you were the life That thrilled along the underbelly Of a stone. Stilled in the frozen pond You
Small Game
In borrowed boots which don’t fit And an old olive greatcoat, I hunt the corn-fed rabbit, Game fowl, squirrel, starved bobcat, Anything small. I bring down Young deer wandered from the doe’s Gaze, and
They Feed They Lion
Out of burlap sacks, out of bearing butter, Out of black bean and wet slate bread, Out of the acids of rage, the candor of tar, Out of creosote, gasoline, drive shafts, wooden dollies,
Sierra Kid
“I’ve been where it hurts.” the Kid He becomes Sierra Kid I passed Slimgullion, Morgan Mine, Camp Seco, and the rotting Lode. Dark walls of sugar pine, And where I left the road I
Among Children
I walk among the rows of bowed heads The children are sleeping through fourth grade So as to be ready for what is ahead, The monumental boredom of junior high And the rush forward
Heaven
If you were twenty-seven And had done time for beating Our ex-wife and had No dreams you remembered In the morning, you might Lie on your bed and listen To a mad canary sing
Red Dust
This harpie with dry red curls Talked openly of her husband, His impotence, his death, the death Of her lover, the birth and death Of her own beauty. She stared Into the mirror next
The New World
A man roams the streets with a basket Of freestone peaches hollering, “Peaches, Peaches, yellow freestone peaches for sale.” My grandfather in his prime could outshout The Tigers of Wrath or the factory whistles
An Abandoned Factory, Detroit
The gates are chained, the barbed-wire fencing stands, An iron authority against the snow, And this grey monument to common sense Resists the weather. Fears of idle hands, Of protest, men in league, and
House Of Silence
The winter sun, golden and tired, Settles on the irregular army Of bottles. Outside the trucks Jostle toward the open road, Outside it’s Saturday afternoon, And young women in black pass by Arm in
The Distant Winter
from an officer’s diary during the last war I The sour daylight cracks through my sleep-caked lids. “Stephan! Stephan!” The rattling orderly Comes on a trot, the cold tray in his hands: Toast whitening
A Sleepless Night
April, and the last of the plum blossoms Scatters on the black grass Before dawn. The sycamore, the lime, The struck pine inhale The first pale hints of sky. An iron day, I think,
The Present
The day comes slowly in the railyard Behind the ice factory. It broods on One cinder after another until each Glows like lead or the eye of a dog Possessed of no inner fire,