today I looked into his eyes
and he thanked me.
A poet would write his rage,
not talk to the dead at night,
a poet would understand the great gift
of being loved
for so long
so well,
and drink deep,
salute the ghosts, elbow aside a place for himself in bed
next to his dad.
2. Mother
i. Where are the horses
on our night ride?
Through the wall
of golden shower.
I can follow you to the hill
but no farther.
Grief supports me
to the other world,
but the distance draws you.
Remember me:
the well of your love
is my water.
I was a fool to think
I could keep you.
Foolish love.
ii. In the beginning
we set out together.
Now somehow, somewhere,
you’ve sighted shore.
As for me, I’m still looking, sun-blinded,
moon-crazed,
through the lens of wet eyes.
iii. Twelve herons
long sea grass
rocky foreshore
sea wrack
wild roses
broom
swallows
geese swimming
a path underfoot
the silk sea
a boat close to shore
a stick thrown
sun on the marsh
three more herons
still as dried insects
3. A woman walked around the dining table
this morning,
a small boy climbed up,
and I’m worried
he might fall.
Her face wears an expression
stamped there, my father says,
as of days of yore
when the first face was made
and its look was fixed
by the maker.
I’m glad it’s not you, this ghost who has
returned to circle the table—
you have better things to do—
(the boat in which you travel
has caught a wind,
your hand is cool where it trails in water—
you’re almost home!)
Every child loses its mother, I suppose,
the lamp lit from birth goes out,
the child knows the dark.
You are still my light,
and I’ll find you
wherever you are.
Now I see why the woman has come—
to show me how it’s done.
4. In the house on Torquay, Herbert had a dream:
he saw a green roadster, and his two friends;
the car slid past the window, dressed in clouds;
his friends wore suits and waved.
They called, “Herbert rise up. Awake. Today
is your wedding.”
Herbert slid out of bed: his eyes were crescents,
his heart was iron,
a sword had passed through him.
“Wake up!” Behind the mist—a house of storm clouds,
a bridge. “Awake, awake, get in!”
Herbert stood in the dark: the dream swirled
through his head like the woman (even now)
opening drawers, lifting his clothing to her face,
a woman he had once known, her damp, scented skin
on his hands, holding him.
1. I have no dress or shoes,
no book beside the bed,
no dog for comfort,
no house,
just the bed.
It is wide enough,
but is still as a hillside
where cows stalk downward
to a salt lick.
I hold you as if you were a glass
given to me to drink
and to keep safely full,
I hold you as if we are inside
a green tent.
Your eyes are lost buttons
uncovering.
2. The Yellow Dress
It is the kind of dress I can draw—
buttoned,
three-quarter-sleeved,
the skirt a bell,
a floral overskirt—
not something I would buy,
but it suits
the girl with honey hair
who wants the dress.
She opens her mouth—
a note like a charm, a silver salmon,
a shard of glass…
What would make her happy,
is this dress—
put it on, for God’s sake!
Grass springs between her fingertips.
3. On the Island of Paros
I wished, above all,
to be a poet,
and I wished to feel
like Archilochus, that old soldier
eating bread on his spear,
that nothing is unexpected
or can be declared impossible—so do not be