Skip to content

Month: July 2009

“When Sleep Won’t Come”

.. WHEN SLEEP WON’T COME . Four in the morning, harassed by squirrels or worse squealing in the back woods as they ravage over scarce food, mates, dens or perhaps because of . that other raw need I’ve felt myself in the middle of the night– an urge to be as cruel to the silence as silence can be .to witnesses who wake to what’s missing. . Five in the morning and a newspaper assaults my front door, its first page clawed by headlines from Iraq and Korea. Some innocent will still be .… Read more “When Sleep Won’t Come”


. On bare walls at foursome sentry to their yellow bedspread and feather- filled battings, she wants to layer, to paint wild thistle blooms — one blue to regard, in turn, through her two blue eyes; to dawn to; to take leave of with their early sleep or coupled slaking. Sky on sea, surf on undertow, undertow on teal-streaked seashell. The color that she desires despite his edicts for white, his daylong denials. Clouds on foam. Foam on bleached bone. Once he took her, assuming Biaco, Parian, Yule — blightless marble of peer goddess, rare owl, flutings; but she has ever veined blue, forever… Read more Thistling


  Locked in a drug store. At closing time. My mother on the eve of her eightieth birthday. Smiles for the stranger. On the sidewalk who takes her picture. Soon after she blows out. All her candles. . My teenage daughter backs out. Our car nearly hits a signpost. In the woman’s ward where she works. A grown man. Argues, yells too close. To the new-born baby. . A ballerina. This morning’s tour guide. Shows how from each tall blue lamp on the campus. A girl can aim. For the next. Then points to the building named… Read more July

Three Without Umbrellas

. I see them while driving through flooded streets — a tall thin man loping past the Y, head lowered, not pausing for red lights; a large woman in sneakers at the bus stop, swaying left to right; a young foreigner darting onto campus with his folders, into the nearest annex. . Why did none of them pay any attention to the many predictions? Was it habit or long indifference — he with his drowned dreams, she with her stormy turns of mind, that third with memories from childhood of islands hit by hurricanes, rafts… Read more Three Without Umbrellas