Poetry

The hawk sweeps down from his aerie,
dives among swallows,
turns over twice in the air,

It’s too beautiful today.
Even the ramshackle
Fine Arts Work Center is beautiful

each beast tells his own story
this is my story to you
I have loved you seventeen years
and both of us are not young any more
we live in another country

In that bad year, in a city to have now no name,
In the already-dark of a winter’s day, our feet

At rest-hour a rhythmic
faint squink, squink
in the top bunk
farthest from the counselor:

The feast-huddle explodes when I approach,
a gray fox remains, whitening to bone.
The risen wait in the limbs above
for me to glance the marker, pass on.