Raingiver

You come upon this poem,
O reader, raingiver
And I leap to my feet
And dance

Dance for the rain
You say, gleaming catseyes,
It will come, it will come,
I say, swinging my feet.

A Walk

Across the town at a fast clip
Before the rains came
Rounding corners like an engine
I thought of you
And heard a grackle sigh
In a bush against an iron grate
You open me to the world

A Resolution

He took
another woman
to bed

All
was havoc
in my head

In lieu of suicide
I kissed him

It was a kiss
from which innocence
was entirely
absent

Thus I began my novel

Willy's Mom's Visit

she loved the "stairs"
going up on the outside of buildings
the way they extended across the facade of the whole street
the way their shadows fell, making a second set of stairs
beneath the solid ones
in Michigan -- no -- in New York -- yes --
so she took a picture of these "fire escapes"

the first thing she did was she got out her ukelele and played
gimme one reason to stay here and i’ll turn right back around

and i turned right back to belief
and knowing
my mother always did like to talk

Easter Rain

rain
on
down,
rain! trampled flowers: limp daffodil,
poor crocus, magnolia blossoms
neverforeverneverever unfolding
flowers blooming like flowers
forever
and
forever:
reign
on
down,
reign!

Low Tide

It comes to me obliquely, your affection.
I would talk about the September
Sun and how it warms more noticeably than July's
If I were that kind of poet.
But since I am not,
Let this suffice:
I like you too,
Though I may not
Always show it...

Flowers in the Snow

This morning on my way to buy the newspaper
I stumbled in the snow, caught myself with a grimace
And taking a backstep that I learned in ballet
I looked off to see a ring of daisies
Beside a drift of snow

Bodings in Georgia

Shining Georgia light
Golden light
One day in Aerobics
The light came through, onto the wood
Beneath the window

My friend in Boston
Had been to Maine in October
She sent a postcard:
"I am ready, now, for the fall"

The light came through
As it does in New York City
Where I am now

You sent me a crystal
I hung it in the dark
In my cell down South

Today it hangs in paradise
Reflecting rainbows
All over my room
In New York

Auden In New York

a plaque
on a red brick building
a block away
on this humble street
in this lowly village
says, believe me,
"w. h. auden lived here: 'if equal affection cannot be,
let the more loving one be me'"

but yesterday
they were breaking down his old building
rending its insides
the plaque was gone
i asked the workmen where
and they said someone
someone had taken it

i wonder
if there are other places in new york
bearing the ghosts of plaques

A Letter to the Future

John Lennon, John Lennon

I sing like a hen wren
Like a bird, strong of feature
My voice is moving through chimes like the wind

Your sequined vest
You look like a bird of many colors

I wrote songs
You all know them
Still alive, I haunt your music

Coney Island

what if
we had
to go
to see
the sky

droves
of people
gazing
upwards
crowding
to grassy greens

where the blue
was above

Maine Revisited

viewed through a screen:
a brown cabin
standing under the wild moon:

your photograph,
seen again after twenty years,
tugged at my heart like a lame child

A Ballet in Time

memories
from far down
life’s laden lanes
call me back
to here
where you are
again

we’ve trodden
those lanes
long apart

but
like dancers
whose leaps
apart depend
on final
grasping

to fulfil
the meaning
of their dance

we find
we’ve been listening
to the same music

Looking for a Poem

Looking for a poem,
I saw a tiny airplane overhead,
A white fly climbing through the sky,
But I rejected it as a subject:
I'd rather write about you.

No Address

and i give this to you,
someone ancient:
far though you are
farther than that star
i can't see --
so i write this for you,
old as you are;
your moon rising high
above new york:
but where
shall i send it?

Self-Poesy

O Poet of this here boudoir,
O poet of the night, ce soir;
O Poet of all the near and far,
O Poet of the moon, the stars --

Write of the longings you feel when you rise;
Write of the noonday’s exuberance.
Write of the evening's sweet demise;
Write, grow old, grow old, and wise.

The Poem as Letter

i'm not going near the hospital
this spring: I might miss
something, the tulips or
the lilacs or the roses,
the wild roses. I might
miss a full moon
or even a warm rain.

what a love I have
for you; you, o reader,
who sees what I see,
who confirms for me
the whitened trees turning
and turning green,
leaves sprouting
round those
pure white flowers;
you called them bradford pears,
trees that don't bear fruit
all over the city.

i still feel like
i'm watching a movie
when it's winter outside
and spring or summer
on the screen,
as i look out the window
and write this letter
to you. so what's
new with me?

after some reflection,
i'd say just
the weather, turning,
on this spinning,
spinning, globe --

In Memory of My Cousin, Ray Lokken

the clouds low
over Lake Millicent,
we drifted
into the bay,
the oarlocks creaking
as if they
would never stop
you bent over
towards me
and whispered this:
when i am gone
think of me
as the water lily
forever floating,
beautiful as sunlight,
and casting no shadow

1997

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