Bach, I said, he had 20 children.
he played the horses during the da
he f—ed at night
and drank in the mornings.
he wrote music in between.

by God, I don’t know what to
do.
they’re so nice to have around.
they have a way of playing with
the balls

he lives in a house with a swimmin
and says the job is
killing him.
he is 27. I am 44. I can’t seem t
get rid of

there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often

the mockingbird had been following
all summer
mocking mocking mocking
teasing and cocksure;
the cat crawled under rockers on p

Jane, who has been dead for 31 yea
never could have
imagined that I would write a scre
days together
and

he was 65, his wife was 66, had
Alzheimer’s disease.
he had cancer of the
mouth.
there were

It’s never quite right, he said, t
the way the music sounds, the way
written.
It’s never quite right, he said, a
taught, all the loves we chase, al

when you’re young
a pair of
female
high-heeled shoes
just sitting

it sits outside my window now
like and old woman going to market
it sits and watches me,
it sweats nevously
through wire and fog and dog—bark