APOLOGY
I
am
sorry
I woke you
before you finished
your dream in which you were a goat
and I the blue, luxuriant grass you nibbled on
all
day
and night
each day of
your life in a state
of perpetual contentment
because, apparently, some enzyme in me (the grass)
made
you
restful—
forgetful,
even, of the time
and life’s pressures and absences—
but I am hungry and it’s your turn to cook dinner.
ON RIBERA’S “LA MUJER BARBUDA"
She
is
not some
frightful hag
with a heavy beard
but a stout man with sturdy hands
and one enormous breast suspended from the center
of
his
chest like
a swollen
gourd soon to be plucked
and hollowed, then carefully strung
with gut for the lyre, on which a bard might weave weird tales—
a
breast
so soft
it startles
the infant at its
nipple into a deep, timeless
silence which resembles (but is not) awe or worship.
SPRING
One
day
in spring
when the brown
grass was hard beneath
our boots and every breath brought forth
a stream of brief but rolling cloud, we walked the train tracks
past
the
edge of
town. Brian
handed out the beer
and Jorge allotted each three smokes.
Tommy brought his lighter and a guy we didn’t know
named
Pete.
I brought
the silence—
which was needed when
we stopped to stare at gutted cars
and Pete for who knows what yelled “Look!” and started dancing.
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