Poetry

Yes, there were “close-ups.” In a marriage like theirs,
there were many, and each was easy to find
(her lovely face, her smiles, her pensive stares)

He never even noticed anymore
the “finish” of the wine, the tang of the salt,
the sweetness of the sugared petit four,

It’s a farm town in the August heat
With a couple of bars along Main Street.
A jukebox moans from an open door

All contrary noises in the world,
the bang of unlatched things, 
the scratching in the wall,

[…]

The problem is the voices

I can’t get out of my head. On the bridge, the captain’s playing
“Break On Through”; he’s been

Maybe the letter isn’t from a lover the letter is a layoff letter a lay aside letter
a lay into letter maybe the letter says you are an employee of me and I certainly

We passed the baby over the bed, and later we passed tissue,
and her Bible with its onion skin pages, its highlighted lessons
and dog-eared parables she kept handy with bookmarks 

All the beautiful young men,
Muscles etched with birds and names
That would be long-forgotten 

I’m telling you, was always like this: her fingers
around a cold glass, asking me if I really thought her lovely.
In a musky corner booth, thinking only of ourselves. We let one another be 

Nor its manifold mirages, billows and mountains
And mislaid islands shifting by the minute, which nonetheless

Do exist—as image, not as body