Poetry

Remember my little granite pail?
The handle of it was blue.
Think what's got away in my life—
Was enough to carry me thru.

Black Hawk held: In reason
land cannot be sold,
only things to be carried away,
and I am old.

Young Lincoln's general moved,
pawpaw in bloom,
and to this day, Black Hawk,
reason has small room.

There's a better shine
on the pendulum
than is on my hair
and many times
    .. ..
I've seen it there.

Asa Gray wrote Increase Lapham:
pay particular attention
to my pets, the grasses.

In moonlight lies
        the river passing—
it's not quiet
        and it's not laughing.

I'm not young
        and I'm not free
but I've a house of my own
        by a willow tree.

In the great snowfall before the bomb
colored yule tree lights
windows, the only glow for contemplation
along this road

I worked the print shop
right down among em
the folk from whom all poetry flows
and dreadfully much else.

I was Blondie
I carried my bundles of hog feeder price lists
down by Larry the Lug,
I'd never get anywhere
because I'd never had suction,
pull, you know, favor, drag,
well-oiled protection.

What horror to awake at night
and in the dimness see the light.
        Time is white
        mosquitoes bite
I've spent my life on nothing.

The thought that stings. How are you, Nothing,
sitting around with Something's wife.
        Buzz and burn
        is all I learn
I've spent my life on nothing.

I've pillowed and padded, pale and puffing
lifting household stuffing—
        carpets, dishes
        benches, fishes
I've spent my life in nothing.

Paul
        when the leaves
                fall

from their stems
        that lie thick
                on the walk

in the light
        of the full note
                the moon

playing
        to leaves
                when they leave

the little
        thin things
                Paul

The death of my poor father
leaves debts
and two small houses.

To settle this estate
a thousand fees arise—
I enrich the law.

Before my own death is certified,
recorded, final judgement
judged

taxes taxed
I shall own a book
of old Chinese poems

and binoculars
to probe the river
trees.

Hear
where her snow-grave is
the You
        ah you
of mourning doves

My friend tree
I sawed you down
but I must attend
an older friend
the sun

Easter

A robin stood by my porch
    and side-eyed
        raised up
            a worm

Get a load
    of April's
        fabulous

frog rattle—
    lowland freight cars
        in the night

Poet’s work

Grandfather
    advised me:
        Learn a trade

I learned
    to sit at desk
        and condense

No layoff
    from this
        condensery