Archive

If our days were honeycombed with cells, / waxy partitions, then the gold could ooze / and spill its gleam and sweetness...

Cold prose fits, wrote Dryden. Yes, but where / does it fit? Oasis in the desert...

A mauve, E grey, I dark, U green, O . . . range. / I do not see you, vowels, in color, so / any paraphrase is clumsy, strange. ...

M ellow and glowing with autumnal red / A nd also ochre striped with golden light, / R epainted bedroom with a brand new bed...

Winter strains toward spring. / A bird is singing in a leafless tree. / The river gleams, the sidewalks glint with ice...

The row of books is talking like a ghost / in mildewy damp voices. Look at me. / Choose me as I was chosen by your host. ...

To land in a story whose end I do not know— / as if we ever saw to any end: / I try to keep my balance, high and low. ...

After two clashing days—ultramarine / overlaid with vermilion— / it came to me late the third afternoon...

The elements were stark: a winter wall,snow, ice, snapped wrist. Through the breakI could just glimpse the color of the bone.But cold and white, the January crust,weren’t the whole...

Early light slants low across the lawn. / Cuplike, this little valley brims with sun. / Pages fill and empty. In the mist...

I would have liked to linger in this room, / But a rough wind was blowing. ...

Her hair still hardly touched with grey, and wound / in gleaming braids around her head, my mother...

Word trickled down the aisle that he had died. / My first response: how did they even know? ...

Lyric maneuvers through a narrow space, / a blade of light squeezed under a dark door, / hence more condensed...

Deep in myth, these galleries keep their counsel / but re-distribute all the elements. / Nymph rides goat, at-tended by a satyr...