Instructions for fate
writing no in a green book
in rooms which are not yet
ready for us
writing let me be
Poemas sobre el tema: book
Poemas sobre el tema «book» en Poets.by.
Bookkeeping
the taste of
an over-hasty dinner
where we cook books
In praise of fire
who is against fire
besides books
it is sand on the back
a kiss in the dark
nothing but the opinion
of a match
or a masquerade
where antique dresses dance
After reading
all the books
continuing in me
other matters colors pains
are my own
and near
Life of the mind
a secret was her only company
that and her books
her doll is gone away to live
(they say) in the country
so buying a rose we mistake it
(strange fancy) for a bell
Global positioning
cold full of doors
not so much a church as a paper chamber
I place myself in the world
among books and spoons
a box leased for my office
sin and prayers
Axe
It was late. The lamplight gelled around you
like pine sap thickening into amber.
You were forgetting how to read, losing words
in the exact reverse order of how you learned them decades before,
until the book open on your lap seemed
as blankly comforting as a glass of milk.
Death had come, but not for the reasons usually alleged.
He found himself enchanted by your bones,
which were light as piccolos, & your skull’s smile
faintly visible under the skin
like a subliminal advertisement for eternal spring.
The clock stopped in mid-tick.
Your eyes took on a faraway look.
Was I supposed to run after you? I was tired.
My trademark guitar had long since gone electric –
an axe, as they say.
Place setting
the place for a book against plate
spoons and forks
God and Caesar
who lays out fruit
for Father Christmas
and where but at the door to evening
reckoning with cold and wind
Bodily questions
in the book of the body
is there no other writing true as romance
which is true and which false
of two children perfectly made
joined at their bellies
and only one pair of legs
what work will make us fear
the consequence of it
how is holding you
so large a music
Imago
I saw a book
in the water
a wing
the ground took to eat
Student days
books were my oysters
and with little money
I was content to wear a gown
indoors all day
and go out with my legs
into the cold
Epigraph
I have bled good cheer
I have pretended to hope
I have set down in this book the grace of what
I have