Eurydice’s Hairpin. Cassandra’s Curse.

There are the names of wildflowers
that come out just at night,

On a sunny morning a somebody discovers an official letter in his dwelling: it is lying on the breakfast table next to the cup. It is uncertain how it got there. Scarcely opened, it pounces on the reader with a demand:

The man on stilts 
lights his cigar
from the glow

Homage to those days
when you're up early and hysterical before noon.
When your deepest darkest doubts

The shape of loneliness is a hole
By definition, to be filled.

At the outer edges of the hole
The lizard of jealousy sits

And I say my poems are getting too loose
flopping like clothes on a line
bright colored Bodies

Very old bodies always seem to be melting
like fetuses, or flaccid smelly large white lumps
of mozarella cheese. They are as shapeless

Don’t take me home, at least not yet;
Let’s have another drink, and sit
and talk—I want to be your woman,

It’s not
because I am a land
lover

When I wake, the sheep are eating apple peels just outside the screen, the trees are heavy, soaked, and hushed, the sun just rising. All seems calm, and yet somewhere inside I am not calm. We live in wooden buildings made of two by fours, making the landscape nervous for a hundred miles.