Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Danse Russe

when grandma is sleeping
and the cat in the kitchen
is sleeping
and the moon is a pale-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,—
if i in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my bookshelves
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
"i am eating, eating.
i was born to eat borsch,
i am best so!"
if i admire the sour cream, my spoon,
your cabbage, beets, potatoes
against the yellow drawn shades—

who shall say i am not
the happy genius of my household?

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Man in the Park

The Voice of the Angels

you say
may be used
against you.

Tuesday, November 04, 2008