Death Rites
In their mourning coats, the magpies
gather in a frenzy
squawking ceaselessly for one
who lies still on the pavement;
one touches the body, looks up,
and scratches the sky’s ceiling.
Are you there, they ask?
Where have you flown to?
Their cries are shrill.
Every now and then one
pulls feathers from the dead one.
Where have you gone, they
are asking. Their heads
tilt to the sky where last
they found him alive.
One pulls on his wings,
which flap down again.
He demands he use them again and fly.
They pace nervously about.
They come near. They depart. They cannot
keep still. What is this they insist?
The wind rustles a newspaper
left on a bench by someone
who has long left.
Smooth As Water, Flat As An Envelope
It is rough around the edges
but that will eventually work out-
the water will make everything smooth
and flat and standard like an envelope.
I will let you in on something:
when I was a boy
my parents were octopuses.
Do not task me
with explanations.
I just knew. Okay. It was a certitude.
When I went to sleep my father
had to lie in bed with me.
I had recurring nightmares.
Each night the room was filled
with ghosts who wore red fezzes.
I know it has Freudian overtones,
but who knew then. Not even
my father, who was a human.
I think my mother sometimes kept
him company, which settled nothing.
Anyway, I grew up, you might say.
And I am acceptable,
at least on the surface
and that takes up most everything.
An Ending
What can I tell you that you do not remember
and could tell, if you wanted, much better?
In my version, there would always be error.
What could I say like an opened letter
that would make it easier to understand?
Sometimes what is unsaid is truer.
When we were breaking up, we took a trip to Greece
for memories’ sake. The cradle of Western Civilization
would be our ending place. There would be no peace.
When we left the motel in Athens
we found ourselves lost. We could not read the letters
of the street names. Thanks to your strong sense
of direction, we managed to get back.
You always knew where you were and were better
than I was at keeping your bearings. You had tact.
We visited the Parthenon. We ate in a taverna.
We climbed Mount Lycabettus, where two snakes twisted
their way before our path. It might have been an omen about separating.
We were no readers of symbols and signs.
At the peak, we visited the renowned shrine,
paid homage, left a donation and climbed down.
In this place of myth, we ourselves were myths
even with our feet on the ground. In a café,
we drank Ouzo and nearly flew into the sky.
On a Sunday night, we watched in wonder
as the entire population walked together in a volta,
a leisurely stroll joining the community together.
It made us question our decision to break up.
There was something soothing in the silhouettes of people
against the darkening sky as they communicated their mutual joy.
Anthology of the City
The walls are spray painted.
So many have left their marks
the shapes overlap and intermingle.
(Pompeii, Ancient Egypt) (San Juan, Port-
au- Prince, the Hebrides). It was criminal
and shocking in 1960. Now, few pay attention.
I saw a tunnel spray painted
in soft palette colors in Paris, France.
Everyone wants to feel
they belong. One way to achieve this
is to leave on a wall the colors
of your heart. And that is what
they did -in scores.
Sometimes they wanted their
marks to move like animations,
so they spray painted
subway trains. How the Express
leapt from the Elevated
and those sitting on the hard
plastic seats inside barely noticed it.
They were all too tired to care.
They had all left their mark somewhere.
The Uncanny
I dismounted
after a brisk morning ride
and handed the reins
to the stable boy
who led the horse
back to the stall.
I showered once inside
though I confess to being
partial to the smell of horsehide.
I toweled dry and put on silk pajamas,
and got into bed with a book.
Before I knew it, I was asleep.
I left time behind and then
I was running on a mountain trail.
It was fragrant. I was doused
with mock orange.
I was there, fully conscious,
and I saw things growing,
rank and riotously in time lapse,
tendrils, vines choking the trees
pleasurably. It was horrible.
I recognized a cow from my neighbor’s barn
and she looked at me from the bushes and offered her udder.
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