They drink tea
in St. Petersburg
and if not truth
the desire for truth
and if not desire
A blue light
you breathing the impossible
flowers under snow.
Rain crossed the glass.
in the pale cup of the room.
Sadness was banished
by the briefest gift
No Maybes About It
He was sure
he’d seen it
or heard it
poetry should be
the linguistic equivalent
of lemon juice
aye and no
She asked me to do two things before leaving.
One was write a letter. Then she kissed me.
In town, I slipped her letter into the post box, heard it fall.
Across the street a man had stopped with his dog.
Everywhere people were running from the rain.
Like a patient awaiting surgery
the car sits by the roadside, bonnet up.
Outside it’s dark as June.
With a wave of the hand she declines.
I try not to make the same mistake twice
Something like that.
The Morning of Forgetfulness
Old grey men and the easy money
buried in the folds of your snout,
you look up as if expecting
what might fall-
So I take a painting in the shape
of a bowl of water and let you drink
from the morning of forgetfulness
when everything has been observed,
like the dark river, cattle grazing,
a face, it too deeply furrowed.