Page VII

What He Would Not Tell Him

I often wonder, how many ribs does it take
to cage your leonine heart?
When was it we counted them last?
Was it too long ago, or never?

One, two, three...
It really seems odd, darling,
but there appears to be a mistake
one's missing.
Or does my preening tongue's
slight pressure deceive me?
I don't know what to make
of it, do you?

And why was it last night,
afterwards, those words,
I love you,
so easily caught in your throat?

Waking Poem

When we awaken
it is the door closing behind us
that startles us so
And the sound of someone's long feet
running down
the dream-hallway
Someone we could have known
and loved


Perhaps then the moon is a collapsed
star, only closer to earth,
and asleep.
Tomorrow it may well flare up,
an angry stallion,
our mechanical spurs dug too deep.
Feathers of pure light
filling my notebook's last page.


The way the pickaxe stands in the great shadow
                       of the tank-car

The last patch of ice cleared
            from the tracks,
The rock salt spread

We could get stoned for the rest of the day

Spring 1980

In the morning I awaken and find myself
               still inside you.

Beneath my skin, a tree is about to break
into a green gallop.
We go out together
looking for hoofprints
in the sand.
There are tiny forests growing inside
each one.

You've always tasted of wintergreen.


The Day After    page 1
Poem Against the Reagan Administration    page 2
At a Rally in Washington Against the Draft    page 2
America Revisited    page 3
Poems for a Small Place to Rest    page 4   page 5   page 6
What He Would Not Tell Him    page 7
Waking Poem    page 7
Moon    page 7
Laborers    page 7
Spring 1980    page 7
Lebanon 1982    page 8
As the Latin American War Approaches    page 8
Poem for Immediate Disarmament    page 8
To Whom It May Concern    page 9
Song of the Little Girl    page 10

to The Book of Awakenings