selected past writing at 42opus
Scallop of the top lip crowned in points, full pout
of the lower lip, teeth even ivories, an aristocratic mouth.
Before alar and DDT and GMO's, she was a red stone
in a cling peach whose stem was an aromatic mouth.
All fist and forearm,
apron-stained, I am nothing to you—
a scrap. A skin. Offal of lust.
I am giblets and gristle—
2 December 2004 | poetry
You died in spring.
I go in fall,
not to the grave but
past the hog farm…
I and Pangur Ban my cat,
Tis a like task we are at:
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.
Watched the dark come on, landing on rooftops, the civility of apartment windows & streetlights emerging with it, accompanying it like some harmony, which could only be imagined, or painted, by a Whistler, say, as far away from Lowell as he could get…