Poetry
Communion of Dust It’s how I arrived in this place. Dust. Blood. Thin figures. Shadows stretched like bars against a farm gone fallow. Gone dust. Gone wind. My grandmother said, Steinbeck never got it right. …
When June Is Here When June is here—what art have we to sing The whiteness of the lilies midst the green Of noon-tranced lawns? Or flash of roses seen Like redbirds’ wings? Or earliest ripening …
Over the Town Chagall looks down at the work he’s done, 1918 In Liozna— the town at the end of the world— blossoms spread to the edge of heaven, the little River Moshna weeps over …
Slashed samurai gills on a hooked quivering fish resigned to the air *** Cold cup of coffee poinsettia by the window winter hugs April *** Half a carrot by the knife and teakettle... spring storm …
The Merry Month of May O the month of May, the merry month of May, So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green! O, and then did I unto my true love …
A Couch She Loved Now, stacked between packed boxes lining a spare bedroom a couch she loved in a house I was tired of haunting I left because the body recognizes on its own despite …
Midwatch Steaming as before, independently Which is to say alone On a black sea with white accents I am responsible for the souls Asleep while I keep watch Scanning the horizon for running lights Scanning …
A Calendar of Sonnets: April No days such honored days as these! While yet Fair Aphrodite reigned, men seeking wide For some fair thing which should forever bide On earth, her beauteous memory to set …
A Page from the Apocrypha So God throws Adam and Eve out of paradise but they don’t slink away wailing and ashamed like the characters in Italian frescoes. Instead, Adam turns and says, “Ah, You …
Bison Burgers and Fry Bread Among my people, here again I am, Preparing to be welcomed to the feast. The “immigrant,” you’re undisturbed, at least, Leaned back, as though you do not give a damn …
Scrubbing the Sheep Tank Even in midwinter, algae thrives in the tank So I find myself on this 18-degree day Bending to it, circling the surface, January wind scouring my face. I scrub the scum, …
I arise today Through the strength of the love of cherubim, In the obedience of angels, In the service of archangels, In the hope of resurrection to meet with reward, In the prayers of patriarchs, …
Ode to My Grecian Urns Fake, faux, ersatz and what’s more, there are two of them. Keats said the sonnet wouldn’t do. Wrong tone. No Pindarics — not the right form for philosophy. The poem …