How swiftly the strained honey
of afternoon light
flows into darkness
and the closed bud shrugs off
its special mystery
in order to break into blossom:
as if what exists, exists
so that it can be lost
and become precious
Late Hours"
On summer nights the world
moves within earshot
on the interstate with its swish
and growl, and occasional siren
that sends chills through us.
Sometimes, on clear, still nights,
voices float into our bedroom,
lunar and fragmented,
as if the sky had let them go
long before our birth.
In winter we close the windows
and read Chekhov,
nearly weeping for his world.
What luxury, to be so happy
that we can grieve
over imaginary lives.
. . .because we had survived
sisters and brothers, daughters and sons,
we discovered bones that rose
from the dark earth and sang
as white birds in the trees
Because the story of our life
becomes our life
Because each of us tells the same story
but tells it differently
and none of us tells it the same way twice . . (from, Why We Tell Stories)
This poem is endless, the odds against us are endless,
our chances of being alive together
statistically nonexistent;
I search the language for a word
to tell you how red is red.
Mots clés letter-to-california
When I am asked
how I began writing poems,
I talk about the indifference of nature.
Mots clés when-i-am-asked
By the time I arrive at evening, / they have just settled down to rest; / already invisible, they are turning / into the dreamwork of the trees….
Lisel MuellerSomeone was always leaving
and never coming back.
The wooden houses wait like old wives
along this road; they are everywhere,
abandoned, leaning, turning gray.
What happened is, we grew lonely
living among the things,
so we gave the clock a face,
the chair a back,
the table four stout legs
which will never suffer fatigue.
I thought if only we could go on
and meet again, shy as strangers.
Mots clés fiction
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