I Found In My Bed This Morning A Body Waking Up

I found at my door this morning a woman with lines under her eyes
who, for many years, had driven past my home on her way to the doctor’s office.
Who had a rare blood disease,
which made her terribly pale.
Who had a mole on the side of her neck
which made her very nervous.
Who dyed her hair a tasteful blonde,
which made her less like her mother.

I found in a drawer this morning photographs of my sister with brown eyes
who, until just recently, had taught English to Chinese girls
who never cried as a child
which made her terribly well-liked.
Who sang the national anthem at the top of her lungs
which made the Olympics very interesting.
Who wore her hair the way she woke up
which made her just like our mother.

I found in the yard this morning an entire collection of dandelions
finding purchase in the spot between the swing set and the shed
I found in my mouth just now more spit than I knew what to do with
which, in my swallowing, I must have forgotten.

A Short History Of The Way You Pronounce The Word Evening

You pronounce it like this: "even
-ing."

Endtimes Prayer

Help us not to kill ourselves
with great underwater explosions, collapsing shopping malls, destruction of capital cities and important monuments, melting faces of world leaders, with screams of the innocent, nuclear missiles, automatic weapons, dirt smeared all over our faces, our children asleep and afraid in our arms, with sweethearts making love wherever they can, with the rails overflowing with trains to New Jersey, children going home, with gnashing of teeth, with the Bible held above us like a bomb, the bottle, half-full and in our trembling hand, an appropriate soundtrack, with riots and looting, standing on the roofs of our condominiums and yelling for saving, the most beautiful sunset you’ve ever seen, with no time for mourning, unknown attackers, crying newscasters, stammering presidents and prime ministers, with rambling prayers from the bottom of our gut, with the knowledge that this will come anyway.
Amen.

How Does My Neighbor Live?

In the first days of autumn, commercial jets completing flight patterns above your house in the suburbs of Philadelphia,
you wait there for the Phillies to win the pennant and comb your hair, serene on the front porch, your father burning leaves out back.

Ladies, 1918-1928

When I left that old French sunlight,
bored in the buried color of the people
who sang for a man who had his own mystery,
alive, destructive, disguised—
I mean, drunken with his Muse, their angel,
shedding its grace on half-marble columns—
lukewarm blood and searches for God,
and we may have to wait for the delicate body

at dawn: impossible soft voice,
the arrival of five senses
trembling, perfected, inadequate, authentic,
with wings where, naturally, they made terrible saints
and, of our own sharp kissing, strange at the dawn
of garden processions and all the world,
in trying to love, was imprisoned by the dance
and the bullfight. The body, begging for a drive

home, makes us forget the great highways
where, motionless, she painted wind and saliva.