Poetry

Burning a Life “Addresses”, postcards, greetings, “For the birth and resurrection of the Most Holy Jesus”, prescriptions, blood tests, cardiograms, (I file her letters in a separate folder), clothes both worn-out and almost new, dentures, x-rays, bank cards, receipts, bouquets of dried flowers (so that their shapes, seeping as smoke through the walls of this […]

Nature Morte leftover lamb stuck between high peak teeth: clouds *** I have come too far: strange birds strange trees *** beer and kefir – father and son both at the table mustachioed   The Stone breathes no more but remains warm *** I’m so beautiful! thinks the maple tree blushing even harder *** frogs

MADE-UP POEMS *** New confessions Blue Chrome yellow Stolen *** Tell me something, December, You have been here before. The teeth of the tiger Got you back. Only believe the first verse, The big snow, Unsent letters. *** Eye of the storm, If you could see me now I’m a believer – Yellow dog Across

scale: do-re-mi through a sky cut with a musical staff            cold rain water flows covering our hands like chaff            do quiet and at ease as if imagined            as if it were us in the air instead like nothing happened            re the cold mysteriously seeps and spreads            making a music of bones for you and me

blood mouse look how the trees rise high, a small blood mouse runs by, i close my eyes before beginning to speak, wanting so much to be closer how grand, that which unites us, how petty, that which separates, don’t jail me in empty speech, beyond it lies the metallic red of lips look, the

role | play: 7 once time my inner woman took one look at me and asked what is it that connects us I don’t know I said or rather I know that I know nothing I was taught to not know thus by socrates maybe at one time there was desire then later children who

Orange Peels autumn refracts like gold through dusty curtains and a mahogany closet brims with summer skirts – lost in the cosmetics drawer between toy cars and your mother’s dreams you search and search you grey-eyed boy clutching orange peels in a childish fist you wait for the weekend when through woven ivy fingers a

blowing in, blowing away I have long guessed what the wind really is –     but kept quiet – fearing the madhouse You close your eyes, and all The books of the world run across your face Like the lights of a passing car. Even those that weren’t saved, that became ashes, Even mine

New Worlds The Red Army arrived in heavy armor, civilizing adjacent lands with factories and machines that sprouted like mushrooms in wet woods. Their tongue took root and rang in a new world. Chingachcook and Uncas withdrew to the mytho-poetical heart of the swamp. Their corner of earth, small as a mouse, had suffered more

Illuminated The illuminated cross of an airplane. Short days, a limpid sky, and you can see it from the hill draped with maple leaves by the old city’s old graveyard; and you are also that child – agape, pressing your nose to the glass, gazing at the living map of unfamiliar places, miles and miles