A vignette:
the bald man on the bridge
grasping the balustrade. His grip
is as thin as a grimace.

He pores over the eddies,
the flam of the water,
the sun skim his image
from the surface.

I do not know what to tell you
he tells his fingers.


In the sky there is a ribbon of scarves,
a wishful of brilliance.

Somewhere there are broken
lutes. Starlings part the air.

There is a plane
careening in the fifteenth cloud to the left.


I love you, and that's a fact.
It fills me till I'm rigid,
puts backbone in my backbone.

When I speak, the words
skulk in my throat. Yes I'm afraid
of losing you, of writing in ripples,
of standing in the shallows and shadows

without you.


High above
the tenements, the flags are
full of our semaphore. They flutter.
And their hands are festooned with the bunting
of all the summers we'll see.

From the book Love Poems