Poetry

What we want
is never simple.
We move among the things

Children,
when I am ash
read by the light of the fire
that consumes me

The poem that argues successfully against death
finds its place in the book you can buy
in stores that do not sell poetry.

When it was too much, he went out
of the body’s unspeakable suffering. Rose. Stepped away.

Through lace curtains— 
ravens— 
frozen in terror

The park benches, of course, are ex-Nazis.
They supported the ass of the SS
without questioning; the old stamp “Juden Verboten”
has been painted out.

absence is a margin of strongholds. I go out
and I go out. Love is sequence and
condition: one of the few winter nights