More on: Poetry

To think—I thought it cute, / the doctrine that the oak trees sculpt / the air and water

May the curious prayer of work keep me / in contact with the stone / / and who knows what else.

the gates are not pearly / but white and scaly / like fish.

I wasn’t afraid until / I peeked into the hall, saw a black-clad SWAT team / scooting along the wall, rifles held vertical, a strict formality / that made the whole world seem shabby.

the body learns to move / like a painter / seeing the unseen.

O, I write to you now Lew / Wallace to say that a deal is a deal / is a deal, and that everything is possible / under our eye-squinting American sky.

After the rain, all over the island
wild irises find their throats
open into astonished song.

The wind unshouldering rain,
they huddle into the concave
of the day by windowpane

Upward / movement of us is vain, said Simone / Weil, if it doesn’t come from a downward / movement. Go down to the river. / The counterweight. Down / without talking with father, mother, / brother, sister

The one thing I’m certain you created / is desire, different forms of it, / cut from the same bone far and / / high in the night.