Poetry

The tall Fijian spears a giant turtle
And hurls him down upon the foaming breakers;

I give the black pit dream’s head,
not fearing to hit bottom, to the water
I offer my head like a stone,

The death of the father is my shepherd,
me maketh me three versions of wanting.

We have known such joy as a child knows.
My sons, in whom everything rests,
know that there were those who were deeply
in love, 

I’m in a phone booth in Saratoga Springs.
The water tastes awful, but very helpful.
You aren’t answering, whatever I’m asking.

The first wife floats in memory calmly
who formerly was storm-tossed, who gave
at the edges a whitewash to those rocks

of myself, begging your pardon, as a young man,
quick to draw arms, quick
to take a fence for daggers toward my
heart, 

If there are churches
This is where a church might be,
A theatre if there are theatres, or
A store.