My work, I'm very careful about it, and I love it.
But today I'm discouraged by how slowly it's going.
The day has affected my mood.
It gets darker and darker. Endless wind and rain.
I'm more in the mood for looking than for writing.
In this picture, I'm now gazing at a handsome boy
who is lying down close to a spring,
exhausted from running.
What a handsome boy; what a heavenly noon
has caught him up in sleep.
I sit and gaze like this for a long time,
recovering through art from the effort of creating it.


trans. by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard

Glass figurines and teacups,
china dolls and painted plates,
I’ll pile them all in your hands,
and like a child,
         I will wait-

I’ll wait for you to break them,
but I’ll pray they don’t shatter-
if the pieces hit the ground hard,
they’ll slice through
        my gray matter,

and then I won’t comprehend
what is left of me at all,
beyond pieces left of trinkets
and the man
        who could not fall.


Darling, I hate to say this,
but I swear you must be blind
if you can’t see how much I hang
on each word
        that you design

and ship off and send my way
and the rest that you forget
and I am constantly a wreck
of what you
       have not said quite yet.

Stars in our eyes
Tears in the sky
I've seen you alone
So it is

Tides pull us

The moon makes you
Touches you, oh so
Becoming
Rise up into me

Soundless
Symphonies
Just like it should be
Trading places
I'll never forget how your face is

For a second the stars aren't alone
Neither am I

You could die for it--
love,
or refuse it altogether
and know nothing
except the urgency
of youth. Men

have been
solitary
for ages
carrying the
stoniest of hearts
in their broad chests
while we women

begin too early
brush the brown leaves
from our shoulders, go
from bloom to fade
as soon as
we see the sunrise

We let our eyes go first
Then there is the limp lolling
of our hearts from side to side
the tongue we cut away
the blind kiss on the backlash of night
the giving giving giving of skin

As women
we blindly wish
past the ****** of passion
as we vanish into a world of men
whose ribcages we were scraped from
Perhaps we are born of seeds
our essence crawling up the stem
to feed the bees.

Perhaps
every flower you see
is a woman
and when
she's in bloom
and when she is blooming
red
and when her leaves are wingbeats
of green in the autumn wind
beating wings of green, yes
even as the wind tries to humiliate her
it fails because
she's in love
and only she would die for it

The sun set sadly on the settled window frame
speaking with the new dew soon to form.

the sweet singing voices rose from the garden
where you bathed with your sister
while your mother and father drank cherry flavored wine
on the porch in the melting sun.

when the stars began to rain you felt something new
staring up where the sun is commonplace
you felt little better than you did moments ago.

but when your sister,
hand on your spine,
whispered in your ear,
your hair stood up,
and your mother,
and your father,
waved goodbye to the Hendersons going to Florida for the weekend.

Oh woman, you've danced your dance
You're partied out, it's time to closet those pumps
But Mr. Phonograph has something to say

He plays the record
The one you're a fool for
And its vinyl
Written with biology
A siren's wailing
Scratches you in all the right places
You dance your dance
Throb with the tempo
Your mind stays yours
But that pretty young body don't

Every fiber knows
Why you curve in such pleasing ways
Why your lips pout so sweetly
They sing along

Peace is for those on either side of the mountain
Not at the peak
You could think in innocence
You will think in wisdom
But Mr. Phonograph has something to say
"now, you dance"