On the way home he absurdly wanted to put his hand on my knee and I let him, because it was absurd. What good is a knee? I was busy looking out the window at that beautiful strings-of-light bridge levitating in darkness, glimmering the water below. He hated that bridge. His mother had been instrumental in preserving it, and he hated his mother, so. I agreed that she was a hateable woman. The type who would and did volunteer to teach a children's art class because she hated kids. She liked to kill art, she was good at it, I saw her. So it was all right with me if he hated her. But he needn't have hated her bridge. He wouldn't look at it. That should have told me everything.
shhh. help me keep this a secret.
radiating an image of herself so perfect that it would impose itself on my foggy, backward senses, developing in me an interior visual field where it would blaze forth indefinitely
And now the Great Wall of books you hoped would keep this barbarian invader far from Ludmilla is revealed as a toy that he takes apart with complete confidence.
20 years later, I decided he had been a poet and had run that grocery store in that little run-down village just for the casual poetry of it, instead of the paltry cash.
The massing of written pages binds the room like the thickness of the foliage in a dense wood, no, like stratifications of rock, slabs of slate, slivers of schist
the word "isosceles," once I had associated it with Irina's pubes, is charged for me with such sensuality that I cannot say it without making my teeth chatter.
In a quiet grove of pines under a frosty sky, he helped her out of the sack. She wore severe white hospital pajamas and was beautiful.
the stars had begun multiplying, and the night poured a river of emptiness over me, drowned me in dizziness and alarm.
she who makes the Moon the Moon and, whenever she is full, sets the dogs to howling all night long, and me with them.
but an unchewed square catches in his windpipe and he crumples to the floor like someone poisoned by life.
Would you like to penetrate her shell, insinuating yourself among the pages of the books she is reading?
the only thing stopping us is the pressure. if your machine can withstand it, we are already on our way.
We had taken the measurements carefully (we didn't yet suspect that she was moving away from us)
If it is a kind and warm shoulder you are leaning against, any cold brick wall is the best place to sit.
input is love songs. output is love songs. variation on the input diode would be welcome. free me.
Every shiny fish is floating, floating, and every dark fish is at the bottom, at the bottom of the sea
jealousy, which has been a sort of game you played with yourself, now grips you relentlessly.
I'm not from the land of strawberries either, but I don't use it as an excuse to avoid questions.
enjoying the conversation as it flowed like a flash flood, swamping us all and killing no one.
while outside the grand window skims a yellow taxi over the rain-sleeked Manhattan street
when dawn came, he saw that she was lovely, but when dawn came, she saw his face.
In short, what you are doing is very beautiful but grammatically it doesn't change a thing.
When she was new, she rolled around the sky like a black umbrella blown by the wind
You can't stop thinking of her: this is how you explained it, a proof of your being in love.
No sooner had they unmasked me than I became again the Dinosaur of the old days
I'm afraid, I thought, I'm too afraid to jump, I'm a coward, and at that moment I jumped
I liked the way you handled yourself last night at the clambake. Yes sir I liked it a lot.
The revolution does not put dreams on trial. Nor does it save us from nightmares.
I still feel like shit most of the time, but these two things are like little diamonds.
among the virtues of mirrors is also that of revealing hidden and distant things.
When at last I found no further traces of the living or the dead, then I stopped.
as long as it falls directly from your hand to mine I don't really care what it is.
and our cars all jumped forward like bottles on a table thumped by a drunk
the traps are one inside the other, and they all snap shut at the same time
the science, laying on of hands, cure and read you, diagnose, transform
and me warm in the window, watching Brooklyn fall asleep under snow
the dissolving of one's being in a lake whose surface is infinitely tactile
laughing, as though I were embarrassed and she found that charming
The shadow is going away. You can breathe again. The past is closed.
the slow creeping menace of masked justice along Manhattan depths
on the worn beige carpet of her room I am anything but earthbound
It's hard to hide a hard-on when you're dressed like Minnie Pearl.
children are people readers and they know when you are fiction
Dear Jesus, let something good happen in my life. She's here.
to tell the truth I am never happier than when I am a kangaroo
whatever he touches, if it isn't false already, it becomes false.
Years later, facing the firing squad, Arcadio would remember
I hide in the darkness of the cry that comes from her throat
you are lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry, Clementine
Accept this, and your next breath will be infinitely sweeter.
Don't believe that the book is losing sight of you, Reader.
i had a snake living in my head for a while. it was great
you have got some moxie you can take me to the hop
listen mr. cute sweater you are all kinds of a sugar
for Leslie, who runs through this book like a river
We met in a dream, we were falling off a bridge
Another love. I am weary of the starts of things.
Jack loved Grandpa and Grandpa loved Jack
I love the dopes who argue on Times Square
what is the present, flirt. tempt me temptbox
Everyone says you are wonderful. Is it true?
like a flower with a fool's face I open myself
here's hoping the sun won't rise for a while
it's true that it's funny that it's not a big deal
like filling our cups to splashing, laughing
smoke-blue eyes, long lean rawhide walk
don't everybody like the smell of gasoline
a place where women are kept on ice
Looks down in the gathering shadow
you were the machine? (yes, I was.)
what would it feel like inside a leaf?
seething, a locomotive in his chest
In a network of lines that intersect
Ludmilla, now you are being read.
weeping quietly and without tears
Back When We Were Grownups
it's sick. it needs soup and cake.
In a network of lines that enlace
If on a winter's night a traveler
Leaning from the steep slope
Without fear of wind or vertigo
herring boxes without topses
You say all poets like to kick.
so fresh and so clean clean
Outside the town of Malbork
please heal and start over
i will be yr diesel sweetie
any other life a lie