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Wednesday, November 27, 2013



I had torn two pictures from
Out of the newspaper.  They
Were a man and a woman 
From two different stories.

I made them talk to each
Other like paper dolls but
They didn’t get along very well
And their conversation became 
Chopped and abrupt.

I saw a picture in the second
Section of the newspaper.
It was a dog standing on his
Hind legs and balancing a ball
On his nose.  I love dogs the
Woman from the newspaper said.
So do I, said the torn out man.
They talked about dogs for a long

Time while I had a cup of coffee.

Tuesday, November 26, 2013



Dorothy Lathrop


I keep these lines by other poets
As talismans that protect these
Fragile words lost to an infinity of things.
They will provide me with an occasional glimpse
Into gardens I could not know otherwise.
Without them I could also not know angels.
Music with its magnificent rooms
Would elude me.  They allow metaphor
To cluster near my lips as if they were
A hive of bees, for they bring a sweetness
To me that makes even the moon
Become a magician and lifts my
Soul through its dreams and fashionings
To find a clarity on the page,
That track across the sea for my
Own odyssey, its changes and terrifying
Delights that push me through
The tapestry from my own room
To the hills of the shepherd
At night, gazing down at the lights
The city below offers as white candles.

Monday, November 25, 2013



The hotel seemed overly beautiful
In the Winter.  Driving into the place
The white rabbits in the white snow
Made it magical.  The sun was
So bright it was almost impossible
To tell when the road ended and 
The building began.

From the high cliffs the ocean hardly
Had a voice.  It was long and measured
With automobiles far below moving
Like notes on a score played by
The afternoon.  A hawk hung in the air
Searching as we were searching.  Something
Like this should never be lost.

The children had made a little parade
In the street.  They carried sticks and
Sang songs they made up from what
They saw as they paraded.  There were
Sounds that joined them from so far away
Only memories could come close to them.
They faded into the heat of the day
Almost as if they had never been there.

I had built a labyrinth that occupied
Most of the lands between the mountains
And the river Gill.  I had thought it would
Be an interesting task, but my life had
Become caught in it and I had
Put so many mirrors in the place
That the days got lost in it.

Now I can only recall fragments of my own
Dreams, but they are inexhaustible in
Their variety; full of animals of all kinds,
Full of ancient languages of which
Only shards of knowledge can 
Be obtained.

I find myself there as some other being,
A poet at times,  I had a nightingale 
I called Virgil.  I worked assiduously
To find things to do.  Dreams were created
Despite the greatness of the odds.

Finally everything came down to this.
I know its light perfectly.  I handled
It with the care Milton took with
His writing.  I became able to show

You parts of its precious hours.