Thursday, March 5, 2015

The Crisis to Which We Now Refer


It’s just that
coming home around six a.m.
I knew this place was Rome
four days after the sacking

I imagined the rescue of the children
hustled out of a crashing courtyard
in an old, blue Ford
Your crossword puzzles were everywhere

Like a bomb-shocked ancient citizen
returned to an unsettled wreckage
I stooped to finger what remained
kicking away impediments to see beneath

I bruise myself in recognition
of what’s been lost. I long
for familiar charged things
but am relieved at the devastation

Split, I lean and tremble
on what once was a kitchen table
I rake fear over my chest
I embrace myself 


I will not let go

Thursday, January 15, 2015

1971



Our guests had gone home, hours ago.
Dishes done, drying on the rack,
you lounged in one of our old chairs, 
reading God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater.
A lamp hung a lemon umbrella above you.

Across the room, I sunk into Robert Lowell,
interrupting you all the time
to read out loud verses that stung me.
Rimsky-Korsakoff met
the rustle of summer at our window.

It was one, two, three, four a.m....
You started to say something.

If there was one thing more
in the world worth living for,
I didn’t know it.

Thursday, January 8, 2015

That Critical Summer, 1975


we wait for snow at a barn dance
brave men on some god-forsaken bridge

we wait for snow where a gas jockey pumps
a stream of pink horses into infinity, 1920