Mock Orange
It is not the moon, I tell you.
It is these flowers
lighting the yard.
I hate them.
It is not the moon, I tell you.
It is these flowers
lighting the yard.
I hate them.
On nights like this we used to swim in the quarry,
the boys making up games requiring them to tear off the girls’ clothes
and the girls cooperating, because they had new bodies since last summer
and they wanted to exhibit them, the...
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Is that an attitude for a flower, to stand
like a club at the walk; poor slain boy,
is that a way to show
—After Robert Pinsky
Defier of closed space, such as the head, opener
Of the sealed passageways, so that
Sunlight entering the nose can once again
Two women with
the same claim
came to the feet of
the wise king. Two women,
Over the still world, a bird calls
waking solitary among black boughs.
You wanted to be born; I let you be born.
When has my grief ever gotten
I asked for much; I received much.
I asked for much; I received little, I received
next to nothing.
And between? A few umbrellas opened indoors.
All day I tried to distinguish
need from desire. Now, in the dark,
I feel only bitter sadness for us,
the builders, the planers of wood,
Spiked sun. The Hudson’s
Whittled down by ice.
I hear the bone dice
Of blown gravel clicking. Bone-
You see, they have no judgment.
So it is natural that they should drown,
first the ice taking them in
and then, all winter, their wool scarves
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Child waking up in a dark room
screaming I want my duck back, I want my duck back
in a language nobody understands in the least —
I was trying to love matter.
I taped a sign over the mirror:
You cannot hate matter and love form.
It was a beautiful day, though cold.