More on: Poetry

Nothing terrible lurks outside our great and meady hall. The night is not / a warning. The flood is not a lesson.

the lord / has mocked / has envied and spied / has burlesqued and lined / with fine material / this moss

Someday, in heaven, you insist / apologetically, we won’t have / these bodies

I felt hungry every / day and reveled in it. No sin could stain me the more I abstained.

Yesterday our children, playing / in a tree, watched as the tiniest bird / fell from above them, / where it belonged, / to land below them, / where it did not.

Is a spoon still a spoon, ——————————bent by two hands to look more ——————————————————————–—like a moon? Some nights, I take a walk down to the cul-de-sac, lay myself on the gravel, ————–—play a different kind of dead. It sounds like a fiddle. The boy calls me sylvan, ——————————eagle-boned & I know what he means. He…

She now wanders at large to the notorious peril to her soul.

The ancients,” she says, “thought rivers began in heaven.” / Don’t they? But I’m too amazed to listen. / “We have the same words,” I say. “In our ancient Bible / all the rivers run to the sea. But ours return.

Preacher-lady donned her slender catch of cloth / & ushered folk in. She said a few words, had us linger / with loneliness awhile.

to place the logic of the visible at the service of the invisible / Odilon Redon writes of painting a vase of flowers”