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Victory Near the Plaza

“Sherman Led by Victory” Is a St. Gaudens statue, A cast-bronze allegory. With Victory as a woman Pulling his horse’s bridle Out of a sculptor’s stable. Leading him off the pedestal Into a bronze fable. I used to think Sherman A beautiful . . . . Continue Reading »

When Lilacs Shake

Now, in April, when lilacs shake in gusts of rain, the crown-like buds Waving thick and green on sceptre tips, I ask myself: What have we been. We two curled tight in winter’s dark? And when lilacs fully unfurl themselves. Their heart-shaped leaves. Their fragrant . . . . Continue Reading »

Careless Flying

I I have been considering the ravens, who live without worrying and have no bins or barns And have no reaping machines. Yet they are fed well—their bodies sleek, gloved in black silk. With what a minor tempest They startle and settle, yet they are the poets of motion. Like folk songs their . . . . Continue Reading »

storms

the wind's blown stars to powder in the sky's blueso the morning's pale and clear, soft as breath,those are storms' leavings,these horizons swept clean.      we fill, we empty      we connect and retract      and sometimes each dream, every cell  . . . . Continue Reading »

An Old Radio in Atlantic City

It drew people to it like a fire,The needle floating up and down its dial,Fishing for the news. It was a horror house,A band-stand, Europe in flames,A dummy and his master.AmongThe cloudy mirrors and calendars,The radio knobs are toys now,The beasts have been dragged out;No tankers hug the coast at . . . . Continue Reading »

She Turned to Me

She turned to me one night as if to say: “I know.” And though I waited for her words as we Walked along the outside path of cobblestones And grass, her eyes instead made effort to Explain her inner thoughts and fears. Pain, I knew she’d meant to share aloud. Had . . . . Continue Reading »

Bilbao Alone

Some of the sounds here are familiar: Vivaldi plays the same in this language, keys rattle in locks, the engines of buses sigh as they turn street corners. But something is different, an odd solitude. It digs itself under my watch into the small bones of my wrist. Here in . . . . Continue Reading »

Complex Phenomena

The rules of chaos are simple: A mountain is never a perfect cone. A lake is never really a circle. A dropof dew is not a microcosm. No. Flowers wither. Dust collects. There is therelentless return of what we do not want. Everything inclines to disorder. But then how . . . . Continue Reading »

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