A foal had been born,
had emerged on thin stilts
from the tobacco barn,
and with woodchips stuck
Archives for October 2017
4 from “Arcady”
Painted over and over
There was never abuse
The Hump Mt. Mansfield
Painting and teaching
A Speech About the Moon
I think, “The moon is mine and all the craters are mine.”Then I begin to think, “I am covered with drizzling grief.”, “I have all the ice blue sinning birds.”, “I control the sea.”, and “Everything sticks out of the sea.”
A Few Comments About Psychosurgery
Becky and Lucy
can’t be treated surgically. Depression:
whatever came for the crumbs. He missed
Thinking I Think I Think
What are aesthetic values and why do
there appear to be lesser & fewer of
them? Quick: define the difference
between arpeggio & Armani. The baby
cries because the baby likes crying.
The Excavation
I don’t even want to speak of her, anymore: I don’t even want to admit she existed, once. If I’d had my way we’d have buried her deep in that gash our researches left in the garden: put her down when we brought what became, with additions, the effigy up.
Styrofoam Cup
thou still unravished thou
Leonard as Anatomist, Repeatedly
To raise the ribs to dilate the chest to expand the lung to indraw the
air to enter the mouth to enter the lung.
Stadia After All
“Dad,” I said, saying so, “Shea Stadium and Yankee Stadium make
two stadia in New York.” (Hell is two dogs fighting over water.)
“No, nope,” he said, saying so, “two stadiums in New York.
Essay on Confessional Poetry: My Eyes Have Seen What My Hand Did
. . . In which the poet recalls one term’s beginnings and proposes a rehabilitation.
What is understood as confessional poetry today does not have much in common with the particular triumphs of its original practitioners.