More on: poetry

I want a little mystery. I don’t want to hear the obvious stated, even if I agree. I want to be awed.

Everywhere on my stroll among these rolling hills this morning, I see nude young men. I’d say they are naked as well. Many are undressed. Quite a few have no clothes on.

The guards can never leave the House of Correction because they work there but I can leave quick as I can dream. I close my eyes and hear singing again.

I could never have abandoned you if I hadn’t abandoned myself.

I hear, though, how torn he is: pulled toward something that seems to shame him. I think he half hates himself, and—like many men—he turns self-hatred into the hatred of others, especially women.

What He Knew _____ for David :: Before Alzheimer’s and during it when he spoke in stray words or in sounds he sometimes moved his hands like birds _____ in flight… so that, watching his hands punctuate the air I’d ask myself Am I watching birds disappear? Or a flower, opening?   :: “If we…

I give you my thanks. Perhaps
you see that in my eyes, although
the only words I have left
are no doubt cruel.

mother
tongue she was used to holding, now she uses it to say
the things she means, what God has shown her

To be a priest
is to widen your arms
to hold the great sorrow

I wrap you in a cape and snug it with a clip.
How careful I must be, rounding
your good ear with scissors, the ear
my tongue loves to kiss, apricot-sweet,
and loves, too, the bad ear and its ghosts.