WEBVTT

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Few more recently--
fairly recent poems.

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This one is called "A Ghost."

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The mirage I'd long
thought forgotten

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appears again in a
half dark garden.

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Those tartar cheekbones,
the eye is a fire, the eyes

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of some caught wild bird.

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Something stirs
among the tea roses.

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It's her laughter.

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The bowels of the
locusts, shivering.

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Later, I feel, just as in the
old days, her fingers moving

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across my skin.

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They unleashed the barking
cups, the obese spoons

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with no handles, drums with tiny
legs and leatherheaded sticks

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tied in their hair.

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Hieronymus Bosch, no doubt.

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But chased again by
that monstrous pact.

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Sweaty.

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Tongue-tied in gumboots.

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I feel the cleft
open in my forehead

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and see the blood stained
feathers piled at my feet.

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Phantoms descended from
spent art, hawks with April

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in their beaks.

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And that woman's dead now, who
picked from the roses nothing

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but their thorns.

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