Poetry

My love, the fox is in the yard.
The snow will bear his print a while,
then melt and go, but we who saw

I say to the lily asphodel,
onionweed—

The ghost of the nineteenth century
still stalks the eaves 
of the hurricane house, its clapboard sheaves

When I hear that boy sing, I said, every other
Boy becomes a disappointment. Tiny wince

You flared across Boston
like a meteor, blond mane and lowered brow
in every coffeehouse off the Charles.

Tonight I walk out into winter’s fingers
stepping from one stone

Waiting in a lofty hotel lobby
honeycombed with entrances and exits,
feeling weak, I find a corner, lean

One of the first times I saw
My cousin’s son he was a kid wearing
A baggy Canadian hockey jersey