Face to face we sit in chairs
properly speaking at a distance
propped up by our crisp cottons:
your shirt of fine stripes like prison bars,
my knitted sweater a singlet of chains.
We play yes and no
saying yes, well, no,
let's say no and pretend we said yes.
Face to face,
calmly sipping coffee
sporting smiles
as I tear off your shirt.
I hate how you wear it
when I'm saying yes
and my armor is melting
but you're playing no
so calmly, I hate it.
I do like your jeans
when you need a napkin
you touch them for me
saying yes.
For weeks we've been sitting
as now in our cottons but
all I see is sensuality
propped against my headboard
and the smell of your body
escapes from my cup.
I pinch the coffee spoon
stirring noisily
to suggest that your shirt
is buttoned too tightly
the sleeves too long.
You throw down your coffee
returning a no but
when you shift in your chair
I see covers parting
as you open your bed.

with a delicate dawn holding our shadows
long like honey holds the summer sun

i will never believe you

How far the ground?
What color the night?

To cast or keep,
blush, weep

Slice wind into ribbon—
enamored, the moon:
What song the sky?

Climb or descend,
throw down the mountain
flower, seed, stem

Flirt with the river,
shoulder the sun,
bear these wayward kin:
Gracious plum, Seckel pear,
floorboard, coffin, chair

Even the mourning doves
seem happy

and the man
buying beer

at 8 a.m.
all smiles

bottle in one hand
stein in the other

as he sets each down
then opens

to I wish I knew
which verse

his large-print
King James.

Writing a poem, the poet daydreams an open window,
time, space, like a fog, seep in, bring into view

a woman studying a cookbook, needing a recipe to excite
dinner tonight. She answers the phone, a friend with

a problem, the syringe fills, the adrenaline rush shoots
into her veins. She's high on problem solving. The rush

wears off, she watches "As the World Turns," tells Bob not
to marry again. Another call from a son, a daughter.

Her syringe refills, kite-high, she spews forth epitaphs,
hangs up the phone, returns to the cookbook. What

to make for dinner tonight, but it is tonight. She pours
a glass of wine, not red, red makes her weepy over lost

cats, dogs, her life. She closes the cookbook, places it
back on the shelf. A fog of time, space seeps through

the window. She sees the poet writing, closes the window,
pulls down the shade, falls asleep in the chair. The glass

of wine slips from her hand, not red, red would stain. The poet
turns away from the window, finishes their poem.

In my mind I see you smile
on the night I found you by the fire.

The sea beats up across the coral
to touch the roots of shadow trees.
The wind speaks in the sea grape leaves.
You play your new guitar and sing
of fire and rain and sunny days.

As through a telescope reversed,
I see us golden with firelight,
each with a fate we cannot guess,
clear and small against the night.

Just in case
she didn't see his car was gone
or that he'd emptied the closet
of clothes or
pulled his books from the shelves
or disconnected
the stereo but left
the Technics turntable
she got him
last Christmas
he left her a note
no explanation
just a note to say
so long.

Parsley and basil
on my windowsill.
—I'll grow what I please in January.

Ivy and lavender
through the steam of morning coffee.
I drink to you,
and to all loves lost.

"Has anyone seen my T.S. Eliot?"

Daisies and sweetheart roses
leaning toward sunlight
and the glare of glass and ice.
—I'll grow anything I please in January.

"Where did I shelve my T.S. Eliot?"
(This coffee is getting cold.)

My tall, red geranium.
My first-born.
You were all I brought in from the cold.
Red in the cold,
alone you stood,
but never loveless.

"Did I lose my T.S.?"

Nothing lost.
Nothing wasted.
Another pot of dirt,
(another pot of coffee)
and I'll grow a field of poppies
come February.

You are my people.

You proud Marys with your
storied hair and hairy stories;
storied heels and healing stories;
you, the bravest brashest broadest
Babes with Baggage
on the beat, pink-lipped and finger-tipped
and satin-slipped and Gender-flipped;
you steel-skinned Sissies, you
Vaginal Variants, you
Wombless Women Warriors:
I claim you.

And you Diesel Daddies,
stacked and packing,
packed and stacking;
you, the baddest Stonewall Stone-
Butch Studs on the strip;
you Bois with toys and engine noise
and leather chaps and ass to tap;
you short-cropped, un-topped,
flip-flopped Fags; you,
with the weight of tits and trouble:
I claim you.

And you Invisible Inverts with your
accidental closets, or closeted accidents,
your passing stages, or your staged passings,
you Female Shes and He-man Hes
and is-he?s and isn't she?s;
you straight-world spies and
girls' girls and guys' guys;
you skirted Femmes and suited Men
with knowing grins and skin that's kin;
you sly-eyed tongue-tied inside Queers:
I claim you, too.

My People.

i was born a drifter
with a gypsy soul
and i'll be history
once i make parole

Everything's lost
but it still feels right,
we could tear off our clothes
and stare at the moonlight,
or tell some old jokes
and forget all the punch lines.

I know I'm no good
but I'm as good as I can be
after giving up dope,
anger and envy,
living mostly on poems
written by H.D.

I stare at the silence
and remember to grin,
shuffle the cards
and deal some gin,
cast out my longing
and reel it back in.

On my last day in Woodstock
I walked about,
in the rain, of course,
hands deep in my pockets,
sharkstooth hat pulled down,
and I didn't once wonder
if I looked like Kerouac
or somebody,
and nobody was on the street
except THE DOG,
and in the Golden Notebook
I browsed over all the stuff,
and I note here
that Chekhov's Complete Works
costs as much as
The Evolution of Superman Comics Artwork,
$39.95.  Good for Chekhov!
And I went home and stuck all
my books in a trunk
that I could not take to Ireland,
and sat on my bed
waiting to feel alone and sad,
only I was not,
and I sat there with a child's
quivering lip before the Master,
penitent and chastened,
and anxious to be
dismissed.