Poetry

When you parted the muslin curtains, the white branches of winter trees became the arms of girls in their spring frocks in April and May.

I teach them to behave just like the rest.
They’re marked as absences, take up no room.
They only raise their hands when others do.
They never speak, even when spoken to.

the wind carries 
its empty package 
through the streets

The cloud moves off the escarpment.
The man is seen on the granite face,
A spider, hanging for a long time

What did he say, coming out of that cave
After a hundred forty days, and the world
Still skipping past the stars, the sun

The tall Fijian spears a giant turtle
And hurls him down upon the foaming breakers;

I’m in a phone booth in Saratoga Springs.
The water tastes awful, but very helpful.
You aren’t answering, whatever I’m asking.

The first wife floats in memory calmly
who formerly was storm-tossed, who gave
at the edges a whitewash to those rocks

of myself, begging your pardon, as a young man,
quick to draw arms, quick
to take a fence for daggers toward my
heart,