Poetry

The three fates in dark
skirts and starched shirtwaists
bend over their work,

Almost always, it’s just getting dark
when you come back, when you arrive
on this street;
dark
and perhaps just beginning to rain,

On a clear day, the jealous
Are jealous of ash leaves,
Flies, all jewelry of air.

The Germans have a word for it, the pleasure
in what one does best. Don’t fret the accent;

An afterthought? When all but one
of the glovers or joiners who signified

Red Sea had been sewn
fine caps for ready

We have eyes like Choctaw bonepickers:
Catch extra letters, all caps, no caps,
Wrong caps, censorious fingers

[…]

These evening hours of blank heat I feel
utterly alone, until the air ripples a bit
and I think of everyone luxuriating in its
 gift
at once, like a congregation. I live, after all,