out as two poets flexing their writerly muscles.
crashed into summer
last night with an amazing
storm I wish I could have
the past 24 hrs.
I began to
sense a body of work emerging from the correspondence.
is full of such examples.
was fruitful and brought us closer to wholeness.
(I would like to return to those times.) We became mutual muses.
But then, muscles relaxed and what modesty struggles to keep concealed
was let loose,
have known 54 year olds.
seen their graying hair
battles on all fronts.
seen the way they wear
like layers of cologne.
are men who know how to waltz.
can't take it!
have known 33 year olds
seen them upside down
knots around my ribs
fingers clawing at forever
and like the
waxy-petaled hedges in the courtyard here,
take some some good bread,
on top—smell of gardenia
and the iris
deep blue in the glade of striped maple there,
a turn-of-the-century romance,
so 90's, aren't we?
for temperature and humidity
you me and this
I were one of those
the little umbrellas
that Polynesian place
Route 1 in Saugus,
be the "Kamikaze".
kind of frou-frou drink are you?
be the suffering bastard.
inconsistency alarms me.
You want consistency?
show you consistency!
You see me
as a free radical because I can jump orbits
and be located in two places at once. Maybe you'd like me
better if I were a neutrino, a nonexistent particle,
with no mass or charge.
I'm a real
physical object, even though I cannot be isolated.
I come in six flavors: up, down, strange, charm, top, and bottom.
Yeah, I'm a crazy little quark. Chaos in Khaki.
You seem to have a slower metabolism.
What kind of sub-atomic particle are you?
you boil me down!
writing besots me,
simple and spare,
my Russian grandmother's
the Land O'Lakes butter box,
of an Indian Princess holding
butter box with a picture of an Indian Princess holding...
writing is like
the night sky
Nova Scotia in winter.
stars come out
keep coming out:
you a little War Rug to use as a mouse pad.
I ended up
giving it to your wife.
First she held it backwards, then upside down.
I flipped it and righted it for her and she exclaimed,
"Ooh! A lady bug! Cute!"
I told her, "it's a hand grenade.
It was made in Afghanistan during the war with Russia."
it looks just like a lady bug."
depends on your point of view," she said, as if we had
agreed to disagree.
But some things
are non-negotiable, like socks.
It is not easy to find acrylic argyles up there, which are your favorites.
You gave us each a pair, so touching. Then you gave us a table
you made yourself. The table
has no legs, to me it is an altar,
the kind they leave fruit and flowers on in Japanese shrines.
You gave me some pressed flowers from your garden.
You gave my husband a small vial of blue lotion from your own
personal batch of after-shave. What am I to read into that?
wrote, "A criminal career is a career like any
other." You stole my typewriter, infiltrated my mind, abducted my
vandalized my heart, and at certain moments, usurped my own personal
still, are neither thief, nor rapist, but a saint.
St. Mary Magleden, Patron of Wayward Wives,
sometimes St. Edward, The Confessor.
You are like
a technological innovation, something I never needed, but
experienced, I wonder how I ever got by without it. You're a real
bitch, a moist insatiable wench, you muse me.
me what I want. I told you just this: a moment of grace. Then I
changed my mind and told you that
I didn't want much, only to suck the
marrow from your bones. It would have taken the devil incarnate to satisfy
me, but you turned out to be an angel.
love for you at first
continual toothache of the heart?
later years did it become
sun visor is an
flip it up
order to see clearly
you drive off into
rest of your life
it keeps falling
do you know everything?
I'm smart, well-educated,
I don't live in East Bumfuck!
live in Far East Bumfuck.)
there is more to it than that.
read the rocks,
believe in fairy tales", you said.
"I do", I told you. I have to.
Some fairy tales remind me,
writes Czeslaw Milosz,
of driving at night
and having a hare jump
in the path of the car.
The hare had
going somewhere but
has now lost
its train of thought.
The hare doesn't
how to get out of
the beams of light
so it runs straight ahead.
I am interested
the kind of philosophy
that would be useful
to that hare
trapped in that moment
in those headlights.
the Thief off-line makes for a new interpretation.
I wish I had read him more carefully, especially the part where he said,