Richard Jones
When the sun goes down I have my first drink Standing in the yard, Talking to my neighbor About the alder tree Rising between our houses, A lowly tree that prospered From our steady
When the writing is going well, I am a prince in a desert palace, Fountains flowing in the garden. I lean an elbow on a velvet pillow And drink from a silver goblet, Poems
Swimming the English Channel, Struggling to make it to Calais, I swam into Laura halfway across. My body oiled for warmth, Black rubber cap on my head, Eyes hidden behind goggles, I was exhausted,
All winter the fire devoured everything Tear-stained elegies, old letters, diaries, dead flowers. When April finally arrived, I opened the woodstove one last time And shoveled the remains of those long cold nights Into
I, too, would ease my old car to a stop On the side of some country road And count the stars or admire a sunset Or sit quietly through an afternoon…. I’d open the
During the war, I was in China. Every night we blew the world to hell. The sky was purple and yellow Like his favorite shirt. I was in India once On the Ganges in