People who live by the sea

through the mouth.He flaps his wings& the molars shiver.He flaps his wings& the thyroid bulgeslike a snakethat has swalloweda mouse.He flaps his wingsuttering shrill criesheard only by the earsof the teeth.He wants to soarinto the great world.He is blindas a bat.You must convince himthat the chestis a cradle& a roomwith a view.Past the tonsilslies terror.Past…

without any clocks,she’s begunto listen to the walls.Her neighbors have clocks,not onebut twenty clocks apiece.Sometimesa claque of clocksapplaudsthe passing of each day.Listen to the walls& wind your watch.Poor love, poor love,have they caught youby the pendulum?Do they think they’vegot you stopped?Have youalready gathered how,living near the Black Forest,she gets byon cups of borrowed time?

then grow afraidand close again,a small boyfearing to be hurt,a toe stubbedin the dark,a finger cuton paper.I think I am freeof fears,enraptured, abandonedto the callof the Bacchae,my own siren,tied to my ownmast,both Circeand her swine.But I tooam afraid:I know wherelife leads.The impulseto join,to confess all,is followedby the impulseto renounce,and love–imperishable love–must die,in orderto be reborn.We…

what are you searching forin poetry,in meditation?The mother you never had?The child in youthat you did not conceive?Death?Ease from fear of death?Revelation?Dwelling in the house of cloudswhere you imagineyou once lived?‘Born alone,we depart alone.’Someone said thatduring meditation& I nearly wept.Oh melancholy ladybehind your clown face,behind your wisecracks-how heady it isto let the ideas rush to…

Love is the thingyou waitto end.Love is the thingthat will not,cannot work.Love is the thingthey warn you of-the dire parents,the friendswith their deadmarriages,their crushed hopes.Nothing crushes hopebut the will to makethe heartlike rock.That will is strong.The rock-heart standswhen the love songs crumble,their yellowing sheet musickept in a drawer,their sweet hugs & tugsforgotten,like the merest airof…

if only to keepdeathat bay.I knowthat the burnedwitches,that the seared fleshof the enemy-O we are alleach other’senemies,even sometimes thosewho latelywerelovers-are notto be reconstitutednor healedby myfallingin love;& yethere isthe paradox:love drivesthe poem-& the poemishope.