What He Would Not
I often wonder, how many ribs does
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
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?
When we awaken
it is the door closing behind us
that startles us so
And the sound of someone's long feet
Someone we could have known
Perhaps then the moon is a collapsed
star, only closer to earth,
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
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
In the morning I awaken and find
still inside you.
Beneath my skin, a tree is about
into a green gallop.
We go out together
looking for hoofprints
in the sand.
There are tiny forests growing inside
You've always tasted of wintergreen.
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
Book of Awakenings