This one is called Grandchild, this Happy Days, this one is Soliloquy, this is Crosby and this one—Maria Callas. Blossoms of light they stand, idle and blessed like luminaries. Soon, in her hands she will hold the spent petals, the public scents— but for a moment she pauses, lifts her head, as if some perfume … Continue reading
for my father; and his Sucking dentures, whistling ‘A Boy Named Sue’, my father constructed cold frames, terminuses —one metre x one metre x one metre, four facets, and a crown, hinged and flat, threaded with sparkling wire—of the dark Goliath dwarfing his father’s orchard since seventy-seven. Come winter they’d clack like men across a … Continue reading
Poem and Dish 