It's eleven p. m. and I might as well ask
why don't I make myself mashed potatoes
as I usually do for dinner at 6 p. m.
Why not at eleven p. m. ?
But I do not have the answer.
So habit rules,
and since I am hungry at eleven
and can think only of maki [...]
In my childhood I awoke to my mother's voice
in the kitchen and knew I was someone cherished, I belonged. I could look out
the window bravely and admire
the silent, drifting clouds
and look down upon the silent street
and lend my presence to give
That's my corpse you're looking at, laid out as I've
instructed, with hands clasped before me as in prayer and
just a bit of color in my cheeks, my lips pressed firmly
together, yet revealing their soft, appealing curve, with
something of a smile th [...]
The image in the mirror feels nothing
towards him, though it is his image. He
weeps, and it weeps with him, but is merely
the sign of his weeping, yet he knows
he cannot eat, drink or make love
without that image. He is in awe of it.
Though it does n [...]
I sit here glad, glad of my comfort and so somber
that there is a wind for which I have no wise words.
There it is, blowing, and as it has no thoughts
of its own neither have the trees nor the people.
There are no wisecracks for such kinds of thought [...]
The dog's bark that sounds as if it were choking
on its own grief—I hear it each night
before bed and take it with me into sleep
to be used, I know, to name a part
I would prefer to lose in sleep
in breakfast and in music—that part
I won't recall [...]
It's to hear the children under my window
perform the ritual dance of sex to know
I am asking for an end to danger and death,
for the dance of shouts and gestures
is towards life, which is for danger and death:
a rush towards an ecstasy for destruct [...]
I am abandoned to a dream
in the desert: She is
rounded and statuesque,
the color of sand.
The heat of the sun
has drawn her up
At dusk, as I lie down
exhausted in the heat,
her arms, legs, breasts,
face and belly crumble
to the desert fl [...]
It's a sick life, being poet.
He writes to give himself health
so long as he writes. When he lays down
his pen or shuts off his typewriter,
he falls ill again.
He finds himself in the world, bare,
except that he hears the poetry
of gunfire and cries [...]
Your roses are blooming in a basket
hung on the rail of my deck. I water them
each morning and wait for rain to take over,
if possible, but I enjoy the job, something
new to me who have been growing books,
fleurs du mal mainly.
Did you intend by the [...]
Bessie's face lingers before me,
as if to be touched, recalling
her life. She does not yet know
as a child and neither do I, her age.
She is standing at the door
of her parents' apartment, together
with her mother to see us off,
mother and I, after a [...]
The baby carriage was old, one wheel lopsided,
its metalwork rusty. The child, prone on its back,
slept covered by clean blankets deep within,
and at the woman's side, holding on
to the carriage handle, stood another child, chubby and older by one ye [...]