the clouds
From a high window
I watch the clouds—
armada
of white sails
blown by the wind
from west to east, as if
auditioning for me,
as if they needed
nothing more
than to be in a poem.
old woman
In the evening
my griefs come to me
one by one.
They tell me what I had hoped to forget.
They perch on my shoulders
like mourning doves.
They are the color
of light fading.
In the day
they come back
wearing disguises.
I rock and rock
in the warm amnesia of sun.
When my griefs sing to me
from the bright throats of thrushes
I sing back.
Away
In the small craft
that is my body, I am
ready to take off
from the shore,
waving goodbye
to the faces
I've loved,
not sad exactly
but anxious
to catch
the outgoing
tide.
2. Writing
In the battle
between the typewriter
and the blank page
a certain rhythm evolves,
not unlike the hoofbeats
of a horse groomed for war
who would rather be
head down, grazing.
ars poetica
Excerpts
the last uncle
The last uncle is pushing off
in his funeral skiff (the usual
black limo) having locked
the doors behind him
on a whole generation.
And look, we are the elders now
with our torn scraps
of history, alone
on the mapless shore
of this raw new century.
5. Ars poetica
Escape from the poem
by bus, by streetcar—
any way you can,
dragging a suitcase
tied together with twine
in which you've stuffed
all your singular belongings.
Leave behind
a room
washed by sun
or moonlight.
There should be a chair
on which you've draped a coat
that will fit anyone.