His Shaved-Faced Son

Worm Jacob went about

with knives beneath his skin,

to the city where snow fell

while he had slept.

Snow fell in Boston

and I was not there,

on Philadelphia in the night,

and Worm Jacob did not see.

Snow is and is not grace,

though it writes in

signs we cannot read

and blots out our uncovered heads.

Behold as he reaches out, Worm Jacob

and his span of fingers, reaches

out for the lost bodies of

his youth, intending

but to say “I wish

that I were otherwise, I wish

that it were not—”

Les Droits de l'Homme

Yesterday I stood in the parking lot

and breathed and wished

the air were colder, just a little colder,

and let the coat

fall loose around my shoulders.

In younger days, it seems

to me, I did not hurt

because I did not care.

Gliding in slow rounds,

a dance in unending light,

a reel in frost and fairy-light.

O Absalom, Absalom, my son!

I saw you hanging on that tree—

I remember, once,

you ran your fingers through

my hair and I

said nothing to you.

The man alone wants only

to say something that

means something other

than that he is alone.

All we want is a place to be,

a broad and open land.

All we want is to be

received, a little gesture of welcome

in earliest morning.

Come, put the whiskey

on the table, let

me feel that I

am wanted in this place.

We set our eyes toward

a better country

that we cannot see

where there will be time

again for talking

and where the course of time

will bruise no longer.