Vincent's Portrait of the Artist with Easel, 1888

Lick your lips; there is
a splash of fire on your mouth.
Your eyes are coals, your skin
is ashen. Then again your chin
is bright with cinnamon
and saffron.

Insects and Spiders

Am I like God? I
let spiders drown in the shower,
pinch japanese beetles,
save the miniature bee
caught in a closed
orange lily.



Live if you can climb your way out
     You deserve death (promiscuous! destroyer!)
Pity for your distress, foolish one. Too slow 
     to leave before the petals closed.

Up Under

You can stand up under it.
The only firm footing
Is higher.

Thunderstorm

I felt damp and sticky,
like you were holding me
in your cupped hands and breathing.

But then, when I scampered out barefoot
in the rain, I skittered like a chicken
as the thunder crashed, and covered my ears.

Girlishly. Laugh at me.
Feet in wet grass, on slick stone.
And lightening on the ocean.

May 28

I don’t know how to let go.

I’ve never let go in my life.

And I don’t even know how to write.

How to describe the clean sky morning,

the damp smudge of ink on paper, 

the heart’s incline. Desire and

the thudding of feet on pavement, on cobblestone. 

The cobbler. A pretentious glance, a sheepish foolish dance, 

three biscuits. A toss and a catch and a weariness. A strange 

disjunction of tears through a computer screen. Being seen. 

Being welcomed across a room. Being spoonfed. Being led. 

Being piled with seven small tasks and a last enjoinder 

to be genuine.

Unicorns and music at pranzo. Mauro and Enia 

with two pieces each. Anna Lardani’s extra kiss, extra squeeze. 

A grace penny at Sidis. Proud 

of otherwise perfect change.

Sweetness of closeness and ache 

of estrangement. Balding. Better 

than he would expect 

under the circumstances. 

A long, long hug.

A red wax chipmunk holding magic beans

in the cubby. We all liked the trumpeters. 

And the firecrackers on the little boys’ bellies.

Art and faith. Humility.

“Free yourself from the chains around your neck, O captive daughter of Zion.”

Marmalade and White

I will dance

Here on the shore until

The moon climbs over that branch,

No matter who finds me, no matter who comes,

And I'll bare my feet and run.

You were there

Over the streets of Rome

Just four months ago.

One, two, three, four, five.

And the dark, and the change, and the light.

We should cry:

What a machine can do

By a human hand

To the kitten, and the deer, and the man.

There they lie

And we sing, “glory, come,”

As we pass them by.

Marmalade and white.

Clover spreads

Like a hundred stars

Scattered over the grass.

Watch our legs

As we kick and dive,

Run, and sway, and laugh.

And summer has come at last.

The Oddest Hours

We’re out in the grass with the damp in our hair,

I look like a crazy, but you never care.

And the houselights wink in the dark,

And you tuck my arm in your arm.

You still wake me up at the oddest hours, 

and I don’t mind

The mockingbird sings and the chimes chime,

We climb on the swings and we swing in time

(Oh, time).

Where are the days of the meteor nights,

When we wrapped up in blankets and turned out the lights?

And my father would smile at the sky,

And my mother would wonder and sigh.

We’d huddle together in green plastic chairs,

And the meteor lights would career through the air.

It was then that I started to love

Broken nights with the lights up above.

And you still wake me up at the oddest hours, 

and I don’t mind.

And Orion stands, and the Pleiades dance in the sky...

Who can bind

The sisters

The brothers

The fathers

The mothers

The lovers?

My Lover…

You still wake me up at the oddest hours, 

and I don’t mind.