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In the Library
for Octavio There’s a book called “A Dictionary of Angels.” No one has opened it in fifty years, I know, because when I did, The covers creaked, the pages Crumbled.
2008
Watermelons
Green Buddhas On the fruit stand. We eat the smile And spit out the teeth.
1974
This Morning
Enter without knocking, hard-working ant. I’m just sitting here mulling over What to do this dark, overcast day? It was a night of the radio turned down low, Fitful sleep, vague, troubling dreams. I woke up lovesick and confused. I thought I heard Estella in the garden singing And some bird answering her, But it was the rain. Dark tree tops swaying And whispering. “Come to me my desire,” I said.
1994