three poems




SUMMER Sabbath

Sky will sicken, then turn slate
twigs crack underfoot like guns.

I cry, ‘Winter where are you?’
’O human, when first snow comes, I will wrap you in.’


After infinite waiting tops of trees turn oat-yellow
holocaustal sunsets haunt Bergie:
rope-golden Centurion Gary oaks saved by the Preservation Society:
to tie up the boat of breath. Ripples quiet from a shot stone;

And the heart starts to mend
Which fractured like thin shield of bone.



LOVE POEM (found 30 years later)

here’s your linseed & chamois. your palette:
I’ll freshen the tub &
scrub all our wood surfaces down. Tallow white the sky, the cello burnt umber.

Come out of the clothes’ rack
pulling shirttails from jeans,
Aprils bleeding
colors a chalk dust of them, on smocks.
Hanging out windows.
Spring! Tulip:
Chasing April will be like climbing out of a burning building.
Cannot move fast enough, my Sappho.
Now come close, good night. Lips touch. Kiss then of the rough


Could life get better?
American Slang Dictionary at the feet.
Cook Street a modest, melodic address.

I was the kid who knew things: Couldn’t be contained: A Polish girl my best friend.
Blue wheel doing cartwheels against cardboard sky white as skull.

Fame spread like wildfire out of Brooklyn.

Later with the lit lamp, comes the unmade bed: Passion, talent and Bedlam.














Copyright � 2005