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Poems

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  • On the Beach at Divi Bay, St. Martin

    Was melancholy yesterday, watching slate-grey clouds

  • Riding the Metro-North New Haven Line and Black Mountain Music

    The question is what kind of sausage are they—

  • Called to Lapse

    And straightway the father of the child cried out, and said with tears

  • Innocence

    The birds she could identify—nuthatch, oriole—

  • LOOKING FOR ZAGAJEWSKI UNDER THE COUCH

    If his book of poems isn’t there

  • Mid-March

    If, when I sit here in my study

  • My Heart in Evening

    In the evening one hears the sharp shrieks of bats.

  • Travel Light

    By all means take my suitcase, which now again

  • Eggs

    Eggs in the cakes invoked by Marie Antoinette.

  • Don’t Know Much About the French I Took

    I silently disapproved when they said, “Let’s go French

  • A Girl Who Doesn’t Believe in Myths & I Have No One With Whom I Can Spit Toothpaste At Turns Into The Sink

    we went to the prophetess

  • AS IN A SACK | STILL HEARD | BREATH THEY COULDN’T

    AS IN A SACK held shut by cord,