In this place, where even the most humdrum of sunsets is one wild thrum and summersault After another,   It is impossible to relax. Even The parakeets,   Usually so drowsy at this time Of night, are darting from one   Palm tree to the next, having given   Up hope of falling asleep before...

AFTER JOHN BERRYMAN’S 63RD DREAM SONG Dogs pass no laws against you and knock not they your daughters up and do not to Manhattan go with your last two hundred dollars so, in general, Dogs are A-OK with me. It’s people should be neutered and kept off the grass. People And cats. People—like cats—are mean...

When the moon’s white push unplumbs the sunflower, The yellow mums behind the summerhouse disappear In a combustion of butterflies. Too bad I am not a lover of butterflies.                                                        Such a rowdy hallelujah Is wasted on me. Even so—, I don’t think it would be Such a bad thing to disappear                                                        In a combustion of...

1 From the tall brown grass a small brown rabbit appears. It moves to the middle of the field and sits, Its ribs clearly visible even in the faint, Uneven evening light Of autumn. 2 It is the end of November— Soon, the season’s first fat, wet flakes of snow will fall And that field,...

The sunlight is falling quietly in the dining room. Why can’t we be as quiet as the sunlight? We might as well get married. Further Reading:

Now that the sun has set and the rain has abated, And every porch light                                            in the neighborhood is lit, Maybe we can invent something; I’d like a new Way of experiencing the world, a way of taking Into myself the single light shining at the center Of all things without losing the dense,...

The Angel says if I want to be a sucker, that’s my business, But it’s all about service, not servitude—in this world, you Either become a monster or you wait on one. O, Hopler! If only sitting on your hands was heroic! If only boredom was a form of prayer! The Angel says I have...

 I have no beef with Wallace Stevens Even if some of his poems do feel like so much tropical slumming. I only wish he could have lived here, in Florida, instead of simply Visiting once in a while—; how much more essential his summer- Minded poems would have been! Not that a poem like “Farewell...

How delightful it would be to lie in bed and think of nothing But how cool the sheets are and how hot it must be outdoors This morning, the sky, loud-blue and cloudless, the sun now Fully up. I only wish I could stop feeling sorry for the birds. Not one decent splay of shade...

It was so loud it was so quiet we didn’t sleep we slept. We didn’t dream. We dreamt of panthers and hatpins, orchids and ashbins. There was no moon; no moon was there Ever so magnificent. Even the dogs were mesmerized. Make that: the gods—even the gods were mesmerized. There were no dogs; no dogs...

1 Standing next to a large white pot Filled to overflowing with orange And yellow snapdragons, my old Coonhound looks across the dew- Strewn lawn at the magnolia tree. Suddenly, from somewhere deep Within the squall of all those big And sloppy blossoms, a desolate Call rings out. 2 This morning, still And warm, heavy...

1 There is a hole in the garden. It is empty. I envy it. Emptiness: the only freedom there is In a fallen world. 2 Father Sunflower, forgive me—. I have been so preoccupied with my backaches and my headaches, With my sore back and my headaches and my beat-skipping heart, I have ignored the...