The dreams of the dreamer
Are life-drops that pass
The break in the heart
To the soul's hour-glass.

The songs of the singer
Are tones that repeat
The cry of the heart
'Till it ceases to beat.


About this poem
"The Dreams of the Dreamer" was published in "The Heart of a ...Read more

The afternotes: orange, a little frangipani,
and then something harsh and mineral:
an old jug rutted out of the ruins of a lost chapel.

But first it was like drinking spring water

lathed by rocks fatty with quartz.

No, it's inexplicable,

even the way that drink spared our feelings. ...Read more

Fishermen out before dawn. None returned.
I asked you why they left their nets behind,
but you were looking out, across to Assos,
and maybe didn't hear me in the wind.

We both wore the same ironic mask:
one blue eye floating upon a white sea.

On that balcony, beside the iron table,
a ...Read more

The great blue
song of the earth
is sung in all
the best venues-
treetop, marsh,
desert, shore-
and on this spring
day in the wetlands
where, under
a late sun,
we stand alone
and in love
with each other
and the passing day
we watch a cormorant
whose eye is ...Read more

The old trees shake out medals at midday
to the ship paused for a meteor's blunting
glimpse in the windy yellow of the water,

partway to inventing another world.
Through the window's tiger slats,
the bakery pumps smoke, years between

her irretrievable shawl, which crimsons
what I see, ...Read more

When I touch your arm and goosebumps lift,
it's your mind that surfaces there.
When your iris tightens mechanically
around your pupil, that aperture

becomes for me the blacked-out
cockpit of your mind. It's your mind

that touches your tongue to mine,
your mind that, when you're driving,
...Read more

I hid my love when young till I
Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly;
I hid my love to my despite
Till I could not bear to look at light:
I dare not gaze upon her face
But left her memory in each place;
Where'er I saw a wild flower lie
I kissed and bade my love good-bye.

I met her in the ...Read more

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless-
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air,
Beat upward to God's throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness
In souls, as countries, lieth silent-bare
Under the blenching, vertical eye-glare
Of the...Read more

It was, it was explained to me,
a holiday to enter spring
while honoring the dead
and so its celebration was

a picnic in a cemetery. Flowers
and fruit and fish
cooked as her father liked
and a kind of pastry

that had been her uncle's
nickname. Her aunt was
bringing paper ...Read more

1. I cannot freeze sound
2. or collapse phantom scaffolding
3. I open one contradiction
4. after another. They call this "erotic intelligence"
5. or emptiness
6. They abuse the powdery line
7. at once blessed and beautiful
8. and blank
9. as benign limbs
10...Read more

My 16-month old daughter wakes from her nap
and cries. I pick her up, press her against my chest
and rub her back until my palm warms
like an old family quilt. "Daddy's here, daddy's here,"

I whisper. Here is the island of O'ahu, 8,500 miles
from Syria. But what if Pacific trade winds suddenly

...Read more

So much on the verge
of flame.
In a hot
wind anything
is tinder: paper, sage

feverish with bees,
your auburn
hair, my hand
that glows with a thought.
Sunset

or sleepless dawn,
nothing is sure
but what's already burned -
water that's ash, steel
that...Read more

I don't know the Latin names of flowers.
I know that there are cities wherein stars
Will labor to appear in bursts of as
Or under, will command the color green

To work with from or of or in in staves
And paragraphs, will demarcate the limits

Of the sky. I recognize the colors
Of acacia from...Read more

To-day's your natal day;
Sweet flowers I bring:
Mother, accept, I pray
My offering.

And may you happy live,
And long us bless;
Receiving as you give
Great happiness.



About this poem
"For My Mother" was privately printed by Rossetti's grandfather, Gaetano Polidori, ...Read more

Whoever it was who brought the first wood and coal
To start the Fire, did his part well;
Not all wood takes to fire from a match,
Nor coal from wood before it's burned to charcoal.
The wood and coal in question caught a flame
And flared up beautifully, touching the air
That takes a flame from anything.
...Read more

is cleaning its beak on the ground-
we are closer now than ever-sitting
in shadow-I never want to scare
anyone-not really-I have a friend
who loves people who come out
suddenly-in the dark-
pleasure
is the same distance as pain from here-
that's my skin on your sweater-both hands
stripped now...Read more

The moon builds its tower
Sisyphean project
Like a velvet landscape
a velvet Elvis above the booth
I want to arrive this way
like resurrection
in front of you but not
Casual on a curb
trapped in a beam
almost crossing in front
of every moving vehicle
A long pause
A breath <...Read more

What if to taste and see, to notice things,
to stand each is up against emptiness
for a moment or an eternity-
images collected in consciousness
like a tree alone on the horizon-
is the main reason we're on the planet.
The food's here of the first crow to arrive,
numbers two and three at a safe distance,...Read more

Emergency vehicles
are on the way but
slow ones. You will
have to go on for
some time. Well, years.
Then one day they will
suddenly arrive
and show you your
chest, which is
neatly packed with
something, you see.
You thank them,
having feared you
would be lost.
<...Read more