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Poems

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  • The Labors of Psyche

    Because I could not not-know any longer I held the lamp over him

  • To Manuel Bandeira | To Hilda Hilst | To Adélia Prado

    The girls are still   a d o r a b l e

  • Corona & At a Time Like This

    A miniscule David without

  • SUNDAYS | ALONE

    Mournful Sunday afternoons in winter,

  • Four Poems translated by Christopher Buckley

    In the early morning the city is something else.

  • Three Stages of Friendship and Grief

    I was wondering if your eyelashes had fallen out

  • A Brief Portfolio

    As the fight went on my father set

  • Slaughtered Ox

    Too easy, to take the body as a distraction—

  • Eclipse

    November’s moon is in eclipse—

  • Rain Sonnets

    When the bear finally arrives, he’s starving. He wants whatever’s in my little blue basket, the Tupperware and the

  • The Last Few Feet

    And so the thyme fell and spilled a neat pile

  • The Rosy Tones

    the rosy tones