There is a broad forgotten flower
in the ruins of our days, rising
immaculate from the frozen earth,
its purple heart waiting for a woman’s
name: Rose, Iris, Veronica,
Daphne.
There is a broad forgotten flower
in the ruins of our days, rising
immaculate from the frozen earth,
its purple heart waiting for a woman’s
name: Rose, Iris, Veronica,
Daphne.
Why not act indulgent and reckless for once?
An oarsman floats on a weightless scull.
Salt in the low marshes. Sunbathers smoke something strong.
The story exaggerates. She never thought to ask
that her plates be cast of gold. It was the wind
cutting through the cabin that made her ask
for the house. Her poor husband—always
in danger—hardly protected on land or at sea.
Keep away from drugs.
Don’t go near the crazy neighbor.
The drugs can burn your eyes out,
and he might stab your dog
Without help now
I can maneuver myself
upright, then supine to correct
the wind spinning my brain
from myself. My face angled
and pillow propping my shoulders,
When the song said that even the sun sets on paradise
I think of you and my body breaks into mist—dear friend—
who once laughed and wept I remember sitting in the next room
hearing the low slow note of your exhale like an oboe’s mumble
The windows of my bedroom on Gorky Street in Moscow overlooked a building just beyond the Theater Studio of Movie Actors. One day, looking through binoculars, a friend and I found a…