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 Love Poems