I’ve gone up-rivers to get rid of them
where I dispatch fish. The family
will say this is a lie

she found no reason for it setting there, the poems
not improved by poet’s name?

I think of other women,
how some are beautiful, and do not know it;
how most are not, and know;

But he couldn’t drench the black.
So, he painted what he owed it

The dust of the stable
still on me,
I sidled on up

I feel free to kiss your eyelids.
                  I remember

My father naked in the photo, young
again, crouched among rocks and water. It's an island,
a time so long ago he is thin,

The one who held her hair up off her neck
and asked me to unclasp her dress

I am exhumed on the express
Out of the aftermath of five,
And though I starve on consciousness

The sun hangs on the blistered rock,
The Jew hangs in the sun;
The clamorers are done