Bob Hicok

(1960 - / Michigan)

Bob Hicok Poems

1. The Smiths, As I Understand Them 3/8/2012
2. Translator's Note 1/23/2012
3. Toward Accuracy 1/23/2012
4. Unmediated Experience 1/23/2012
5. Happy First Anniversary (In Anticipation Of Your Thirty Ninth) 3/14/2014
6. The Semantics Of Flowers On Memorial Day 1/23/2012
7. Duke 1/23/2012
8. Epithalamium 1/23/2012
9. For Three Whose Reflex Was Yes 1/23/2012
10. In Michael Robins’s Class Minus One 1/23/2012
11. Report From The Black Box 1/23/2012
12. Feeling The Draft 1/23/2012
13. A Shopkeeper’s Story 1/23/2012
14. Man Of The House 1/23/2012
15. A Private Public Space 1/23/2012
16. Dropping The Euphemism 1/23/2012
17. An Old Story 1/23/2012
18. After Working Sixty Hours Again For What Reason 1/23/2012
19. In The Loop 1/23/2012
20. Full Flight 1/23/2012
21. O My Pa-Pa 1/23/2012
22. Learning To Swim 1/23/2012
23. Mortal Shower 1/23/2012
24. Prodigal 1/23/2012
25. Go Greyhound 1/23/2012
26. Her My Body 1/23/2012
27. What Would Freud Say? 1/13/2003
28. Calling Him Back From Layoff 1/23/2012
29. The Maple 1/1/2004
30. Sudden Movements 1/13/2003
31. Another Awkward Stage Of Convalescence 1/13/2003
32. By Their Works 1/1/2004
33. Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Bob Hicok

Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem

My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think

praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what's happening,

it's what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.
I like the idea of different

theres and ...

Read the full of Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem

By Their Works

Who cleaned up the Last Supper?
These would be my people.
Maybe hung over, wanting
desperately a better job,
standing with rags
in hand as the window
beckons with hills
of yellow grass. In Da Vinci,
the blue robed apostle

[Hata Bildir]