A bespectacled artist called Lear First perfected this smile in a sn… He was clever and witty; He gave life to this ditty - That original author called Lear.

Because you did, I too arrange fl… Watching the pistils just like ins… And the hard, red flesh of the pet… Widening beneath my eyes. They mo… Of clocks, seeming not to move exc…

The man giving birth in the dark has died & come back to life again, is stretching out his arms

Because my grandmother’s hours were apple cakes baking, & dust motes gathering, & linens yellowing & seams and hems

The old poet with his face full of lines, with iambs jumping in his hair lik… with all the revisions of his body unsaying him,

After the teach-in we smeared the walls with our solidarity, looked left, & saw Marx among the angels,

There is a white wood house near… in whose garden the nightingale st… Though Keats is dead, the bird wh… returns with melodies, on easeful… A lock of hair the poet’s love rec…

The decorum of fire... —Pablo Neruda We learned the decorum of fire, the flame’s curious symmetry, the blue heat at the center of the…

I had pegged you as protégé, adoptee, someone I could save. The last thing I needed

Old bag of bones upside down, what are you searching for in poetry, in meditation?

The great bed of the world arching over graves over Babi Yar with its multitude of bones, with battalions of screams

Spring, rainbows, ordinary miracles about which nothing new can be said. The stars on a clear night

In the glass-bottomed boat of our lives, we putter along gazing at the other world under the sea– that world of flickering

Looking for a place where we might turn off the inner dialogue, the monologue of futures & regrets,