Poetry

We have known such joy as a child knows.
My sons, in whom everything rests,
know that there were those who were deeply
in love, 

I’m in a phone booth in Saratoga Springs.
The water tastes awful, but very helpful.
You aren’t answering, whatever I’m asking.

The first wife floats in memory calmly
who formerly was storm-tossed, who gave
at the edges a whitewash to those rocks

If there are churches
This is where a church might be,
A theatre if there are theatres, or
A store.

Wingbones shattered—feathers
Scattered over the continent—
The four unbroken animal limbs beating
A shadow-wind to keep aloft:

This dice-white Princess desk phone
Is a ghost, wearing a small bell
About its throat.

Tenderest pendulum,
     Your slender stem is
          Tremulous as it enters
               The minute’s fundamental;

As the scroll unrolls, scales
Ripple by the glass like fishes
Flashing gaseous tails,