We knew about the ocean: sharks and moods and pearls. Flood waters in Brigantine.
The poem that argues successfully against deathfinds its place in the book you can buyin stores that do not sell poetry.
It is an old drama this disappearance of the leaves, this seeming death of the landscape.
The poems of air are slowly dying; too light for the page, too faint, too far away, the ones we’ve called The Moon, The Stars, The Sun, sink into the sea or slide behind the cooling trees at the field’s edge. The grave of light is...
The park benches, of course, are ex-Nazis.They supported the ass of the SSwithout questioning; the old stamp “Juden Verboten”has been painted out.