Music of one kind,
and another. Now I’m not so sure.
I can’t say, for sure.
It’s a little like some tiny cave-in,
in my brain. There’s a sense
that I’ve lost—not everything,
not everything, but far too much.
A part of my life forever.
Like hominy.
Even though your arm stayed linked
in mine. Even though that. Even
though we stood quietly in the
doorway as the rain picked up.
And watched it without saying
anything. Stood quietly.
At peace, I think. Stood watching
the rain. While the one
with the guitar played on.
The Road
What a rough night! It’s either no dreams at all,
or else a dream that may or may not be
a dream portending loss. Last night I was dropped off
without a word on a country road.
A house back in the hills showed a light
no bigger than a star.
But I was afraid to go there, and kept walking.
Then to wake up to rain striking the glass.
Flowers in a vase near the window.
The smell of coffee, and you touching your hair
with a gesture like someone who has been gone for years.
But there’s a piece of bread under the table
near your feet. And a line of ants
moving back and forth from a crack in the floor.
You’ve stopped smiling.
Do me a favor this morning. Draw the curtain and come back to bed.
Forget the coffee. We’ll pretend
we’re in a foreign country, and in love.
Fear
Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive.
Fear of falling asleep at night.
Fear of not falling asleep.
Fear of the past rising up.
Fear of the present taking flight.
Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night.
Fear of electrical storms.
Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot on her cheek!
Fear of dogs I’ve been told won’t bite.
Fear of anxiety!
Fear of having to identify the body of a dead friend.
Fear of running out of money.
Fear of having too much, though people will not believe this.
Fear of psychological profiles.
Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else.
Fear of my children’s handwriting on envelopes.
Fear they’ll die before I do, and I’ll feel guilty.
Fear of having to live with my mother in her old age, and mine.
Fear of confusion.
Fear this day will end on an unhappy note.
Fear of waking up to find you gone.
Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough.
Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love.
Fear of death.
Fear of living too long.
Fear of death.
I’ve said that.
Romanticism
( FOR LINDA GREGG ,
AFTER READING “ CLASSICISM ”)
The nights are very unclear here.
But if the moon is full, we know it.
We feel one thing one minute,
something else the next.
The Ashtray
You could write a story about this
ashtray, for example, and a man and a
woman. But the man and woman are
always the two poles of your story.
The North Pole and the South. Every
story has these two poles
—he
and
she.
— A. P. CHEKHOV
They’re alone at the kitchen table in her friend’s
apartment. They’ll be alone for another hour, and then
her friend will be back. Outside, it’s raining —
the rain coming down like needles, melting last week’s
snow. They’re smoking and using the ashtray … Maybe
just one of them is smoking…
He’s
smoking! Never
mind. Anyway, the ashtray is filling up with
cigarettes and ashes.
She’s ready to break into tears at any minute.
To plead with him, in fact, though she’s proud
and has never asked for anything in her life.
He sees what’s coming, recognizes the signs —
a catch in her voice as she brings her fingers
to her locket, the one her mother left her.
He pushes back his chair, gets up, goes over to
the window … He wishes it were tomorrow and he
were at the races. He wishes he was out walking,
using his umbrella … He strokes his mustache
and wishes he were anywhere except here. But
he doesn’t have any choice in the matter. He’s got
to put a good face on this for everybody’s sake.
God knows, he never meant for things to
and another. Now I’m not so sure.
I can’t say, for sure.
It’s a little like some tiny cave-in,
in my brain. There’s a sense
that I’ve lost—not everything,
not everything, but far too much.
A part of my life forever.
Like hominy.
Even though your arm stayed linked
in mine. Even though that. Even
though we stood quietly in the
doorway as the rain picked up.
And watched it without saying
anything. Stood quietly.
At peace, I think. Stood watching
the rain. While the one
with the guitar played on.
The Road
What a rough night! It’s either no dreams at all,
or else a dream that may or may not be
a dream portending loss. Last night I was dropped off
without a word on a country road.
A house back in the hills showed a light
no bigger than a star.
But I was afraid to go there, and kept walking.
Then to wake up to rain striking the glass.
Flowers in a vase near the window.
The smell of coffee, and you touching your hair
with a gesture like someone who has been gone for years.
But there’s a piece of bread under the table
near your feet. And a line of ants
moving back and forth from a crack in the floor.
You’ve stopped smiling.
Do me a favor this morning. Draw the curtain and come back to bed.
Forget the coffee. We’ll pretend
we’re in a foreign country, and in love.
Fear
Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive.
Fear of falling asleep at night.
Fear of not falling asleep.
Fear of the past rising up.
Fear of the present taking flight.
Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night.
Fear of electrical storms.
Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot on her cheek!
Fear of dogs I’ve been told won’t bite.
Fear of anxiety!
Fear of having to identify the body of a dead friend.
Fear of running out of money.
Fear of having too much, though people will not believe this.
Fear of psychological profiles.
Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else.
Fear of my children’s handwriting on envelopes.
Fear they’ll die before I do, and I’ll feel guilty.
Fear of having to live with my mother in her old age, and mine.
Fear of confusion.
Fear this day will end on an unhappy note.
Fear of waking up to find you gone.
Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough.
Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love.
Fear of death.
Fear of living too long.
Fear of death.
I’ve said that.
Romanticism
( FOR LINDA GREGG ,
AFTER READING “ CLASSICISM ”)
The nights are very unclear here.
But if the moon is full, we know it.
We feel one thing one minute,
something else the next.
The Ashtray
You could write a story about this
ashtray, for example, and a man and a
woman. But the man and woman are
always the two poles of your story.
The North Pole and the South. Every
story has these two poles
—he
and
she.
— A. P. CHEKHOV
They’re alone at the kitchen table in her friend’s
apartment. They’ll be alone for another hour, and then
her friend will be back. Outside, it’s raining —
the rain coming down like needles, melting last week’s
snow. They’re smoking and using the ashtray … Maybe
just one of them is smoking…
He’s
smoking! Never
mind. Anyway, the ashtray is filling up with
cigarettes and ashes.
She’s ready to break into tears at any minute.
To plead with him, in fact, though she’s proud
and has never asked for anything in her life.
He sees what’s coming, recognizes the signs —
a catch in her voice as she brings her fingers
to her locket, the one her mother left her.
He pushes back his chair, gets up, goes over to
the window … He wishes it were tomorrow and he
were at the races. He wishes he was out walking,
using his umbrella … He strokes his mustache
and wishes he were anywhere except here. But
he doesn’t have any choice in the matter. He’s got
to put a good face on this for everybody’s sake.
God knows, he never meant for things to
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