To Fuzzy 207
Poem to Some of My Recent Poems 209
A Jangling Yarn 210
Paint ’Til You Faint 211
Tragedy’s Greatest Hits 213
Toward Saint Looey 214
Earthworks 216
On the World’s Birthday 217
Jo Jo’s Fireworks—Next Exit 221
No Rest for the Gambler 222
A Wedding 223
The List of Famous Hats 225
Jelka Revisited 226
Smart and Final Iris 228
The Chaste Stranger 229
Ash Manor 231
A Vagabond 232
Neighbors 234
The Sadness of My Neighbors 235
Thoughts While Reading The Sand Reckoner 236
Storm 238
Stella Maris 239
I
from The Lost Pilot
(1967)
Manna
I do remember some things
times when I listened and heard
no one saying no, certain
miraculous provisions
of the much prayed for manna
and once a man, it was two
o’clock in the morning in
Pittsburg, Kansas, I finally
coming home from the loveliest
drunk of them all, a train chugged,
goddamn, struggled across a
prairie intersection and
a man from the caboose real-
ly waved, honestly, and said,
and said something like my name.
The Book of Lies
I’d like to have a word
with you. Could we be alone
for a minute? I have been lying
until now. Do you believe
I believe myself? Do you believe
yourself when you believe me? Lying
is natural. Forgive me. Could we be alone
forever? Forgive us all. The word
is my enemy. I have never been alone;
bribes, betrayals. I am lying
even now. Can you believe
that? I give you my word.
Coming Down Cleveland Avenue
The fumes from all kinds
of machines have dirtied
the snow. You propose
to polish it, the miles
between home and wherever
you and your lily
of a woman might go. You
go, pail, brush, and
suds, scrubbing down
Cleveland Avenue
toward the Hartford Life
Insurance Company. No
one appreciates your
effort and one important
character calls you
a baboon. But pretty
soon your darling jumps
out of an elevator
and kisses you and you
sing and tell her to
walk the white plains
proudly. At one point
you even lay down
your coat, and she, in
turn, puts hers down for
you. And you put your
shirt down, and she, her
blouse, and your pants,
and her skirt, shoes—
removes her lavender
underwear and you slip
into her proud, white skin.
Reapers of the Water
The nets newly tarred
and the family arranged
on deck—Mass has started.
The archbishop in
his golden
cope and tall miter, a resplendent
figure against an unwonted background, the darting
silver of water,
green and lavender
of the hyacinths, the slow
movement of occasional
boats. Incense floats
up and about the dripping gray
moss and the sound of the altar bell
rings out. Automatically all who have stayed
on their boats drop to their knees with the others
on shore. The prelate, next taking up his sermon,
recalls that the disciples of Christ were drawn
from the fishermen
of Galilee. Through
the night, at the lake, they cast in vain.
Then He told
them to try once more, and lo!
the nets came heavily loaded…. Now
there will be days when
you, too, will
cast your nets without success—be not
discouraged; His all-seeing
eye will be
on you. And in the storm, when
your boat tosses like a thin
leaf, hold firm….
Who knows whose man will be next? Grandmère
whose face describes how three of hers—
her husband and those two boys—had not returned,
now looks toward
her last son—
it is a matter of time.
The prelate dips his gold aspergillum
into the container of holy water
and