Better nature
The dog all afternoon
is master of the yard.
I play with
his trust, troubled
by love as art.
Contemplative poems
Contemplative poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
Reporter
Back home to
a heap of cards,
ink and pen my supper
and good night.
The invention of heaven
Ice all about.
In the temple, I found Chance
drawn like a home.
Pulling strings
At the office, a play
with puppets. But
like puppets we do expect
a letting go.
The end of history
Noon came
by appointment
after the war
and stayed till late.
I see what it is:
another night.
Matins
A morning where
I talk about death
though I do not believe
in mourning, grown
so old that I am ashamed
to be in the picture.
And she showed us
her cabinet where she had
very pretty prayers.
Afternoon of a fawn
I watched an indigo bunting on
the topmost branch silhouetted
against the sky: blue
& still more blue. If I told you
all I could see was the yellow of
his bill, would you believe me?
In the bare crown of the elm tree
where a porcupine gnawed all winter,
a hummingbird perches with his back
to an indigo bunting. How odd to see him
sit so still so long, I think, though
his head pivots back & forth the whole
time. The bunting calls & calls.
Could this battered tree with
its foliage like a crazy woman’s skirt
hide two nests? A crow flies sideways,
Lessons
Hands ought
to play. Three times
this week we speak,
my instrument and I, neck
to strings.
Vagrant
I drink alone.
The street is
a good play—
a way to see
home in all
directions.
Ukiyo
“Time enough” is a cheat;
we make good sport
of losing. Give me
the passing of things: heart
breaking in the opera,
a love done
after a little sin.
Heritage
The ancestors give us
a foot, a good hand,
a great fault, all.
I am born
to all things.
Piscine
In the old snow, a fin,
a life-like fish.
I am my papers, like a house
where there was but
one supper.
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