and trucked away. A three-time loser yanks
the Wheel of Fortune off the wall. Mice
pick through the garbage by the popcorn stand.
A drunken giant falls asleep beside
the juggler, and the Dog-Faced Boy sneaks off
to join the Serpent Lady for the night.
Wind sweeps ticket stubs along the walk.
The Dead Man loads his coffin on a truck.
Off in a trailer by the parking lot
the radio predicts tomorrow’s weather
while a clown stares in a dressing mirror,
takes out a box, and peels away his face.
are no less real for lying uncatalogued and uncounted.The fluent leaves speak only the dialect of pure being.The kiss is still fully itself though no words were spoken.And one word transforms it into something less or other–illicit, chaste, perfunctory, conjugal, covert.Even calling it a kiss betrays the fluster of handsglancing the skin or gripping a…
Yet missed the photograph until I sawyour name among the headings.And there you were, looking almost unchanged,Your hair still long, though now long out of style,And you still wore that stiff and serious lookYou called a smile.I felt as though we sat there face to face.My stomach tightened. I read the item through.It said too…
Beside the arms of cherubim.Nothing is ever thrown away.These butterflies are set in rows.So small and gray inside their caseThey look alike now. I supposeDeath makes most creatures commonplace.These portraits here of the unknownAre hung three high, frame piled on frame.Each potent soul who craved renown,Immortalized without a name.Here are the shelves of unread books,Millions…
Some other mockingbird will concertizeAmong the mulberries, and other vinesWill climb the high brick wall to disappear.How many footpaths crossed the old estate—The gracious acreage of a grander age—So many trees to kiss or argue under,And greenery enough for any mood.What pleasure to be sad in such surroundings.At least in retrospect. For even sorrowSeems bearable…
Of unacknowledged love are no less realFor having passed unsaid. What we concealIs always more than what we dare confide.Think of the letters that we write our dead.
the mortgaged walls shifting in discomfort,and voices mounting in an endless droneof small complaints like the sounds of a familythat year by year you’ve learned how to ignore.But now you must listen to the things you own,all that you’ve worked for these past years,the murmur of property, of things in disrepair,the moving parts about to…
