By now she knows that just because it’s thindoesn’t mean it won’t hurt, that green is better than dead & dried. She needs to choose
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 centurystill stalks the eaves of the hurricane house, its clapboard sheaves
When I hear that boy sing, I said, every otherBoy becomes a disappointment. Tiny wince
You flared across Bostonlike a meteor, blond mane and lowered browin every coffeehouse off the Charles.
Tonight I walk out into winter’s fingersstepping from one stone
Waiting in a lofty hotel lobbyhoneycombed with entrances and exits,feeling weak, I find a corner, lean