When I walk in my house I see pictures,
bought long ago, framed and hanging
—de Kooning, Arp, Laurencin, Henry Moore—
that I've cherished and stared at for years,
yet my eyes keep returning to the masters
of the trivial—a white stone perfectly round,
tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell,
a broken great-grandmother's rocker,
a dead dog's toy—valueless, unforgettable
detritus that my children will throw away
as I did my mother's souvenirs of trips
with my dead father, Kodaks of kittens,
and bundles of cards from her mother Kate.
sábado, 16 de abril de 2011
segunda-feira, 4 de abril de 2011
Quick, before you die,
the exact shade
of this hotel carpet.
What is the meaning
of the irregular, yellow
gathered in patches
on this bedspread?
If you love me,
I have caused
to represent me
in my absence.
Over and over
of houses spill
down that hillside.
might be possible
to count occurrences.