at Berkeley is reading English
pastoral poetry with passive
abandon, chewing his thumbnail
aggressively. He wants
to see grass, he wants to
BE grass so badly he can
almost smell it. Outside,
they are cutting the grass—
the man and the mower—they [...]
Jesus, I am cruelly lonely
and I do not know what I have done
nor do I suspect that you will answer me.
And, what is more, I have spent
these bare months bargaining
with my soul as if I could make her
promise to love me when now it seems
that what I [...]
I know the things I know:
my father's flesh will not
keep him warm much longer.
He cannot say why
he hates it.
The worms are
working their way to his heart.
Every day there are more of them
inside him. They enter
his white arms and leave
their red tr [...]
It seems wrong—
the way the body refuses to die,
the way the soul refuses to be stronger.
Wrong—that the memory I cannot fully form
will never fully leave me,
the memory of a man who tried to save me:
vague curve of shoulders and back
The kids are shrieking at the edge of the pool,
their angelic faces twisting. They like
to shriek—they like to make the Great Dane bellow.
When he cannot stand it any longer, he jumps the wall
and chases them, still screaming, in.
And under all thi [...]