“You spent the afternoon throwing stones at the chickens”
running back and forth in the yard
“Parents think of the children of others”
as children dressed in the upright propriety
1932: the Dust Bowl: five kids sleep on cots, open tent-flap:
Is that worn out woman ma or grandma resting beside them?
In a tour of ancient brothels in Pompeii, our guide explains
a slave girl became what was taught her in the crib.
The Hotel Russie’s brochure claims its linens are the softest, its toiletries
“organic”; here, Cocteau picked oranges from trees on his hotel balcony.
bliss it was not to be born
this world wanting
The grave before the grave,
Oh that the wonder had not passed,
The words been forgotten,
Words witless, broken, moaning,
Hanging on a thread of thought,
Stretched out on this windowsill,
a yard long, end to end,
Brushstroke through a watercolor wash in coal,
Mostly it's Google's problem, but the French
assert it, because fame doesn't last and shouldn't.
Their aggressively wide, white, gauzy pantaloons
and broad scarlet sashes mock the precision
Three ways to start a poem, I tell my morning students:
an image, word, or an abstract idea.
A courtesan of loops, this wind-smoothed oak:
at 10 AM, branch-curlicues of white
Your mother looks at the light
dawning through the trees.
On this mountain there is a granite cliff
that stretches for hundreds of yards
Once the sun crests the rim of the world
on the mountain to the east
Your mother’s view is wide –
a sweeping vista of the valley
The winter is wearing its whitest winter face.
Darkness slips out of the moon
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