Susan Glickman Poems

Night draws its plough through the fields.
A fine mist: the breath
of a black horse, dreaming.
...

When you laugh it is all the unsynchronized clocks
in the watchmaker's shop
striking their dissident hours.
...

Once at the breakfast table when that harsh bitching
that passes for a stab but is really more like sawing away
with a rusty breadknife, leaving a jaggedy scar,
...

The little boy's hand, his hand full of trust,
trustingly offered to the bigger boy
as, without looking back, he walked away
...

The woman beside the lake
is reading; is trying to read
the same page of the same book
...

I don't believe in it myself, that lost world
of absolute coherence:
Vermeer's The Kitchen Maid where light glazes the jug
and the milk of paradise pours into the basin.
...

Because it is sullen and slope-shouldered and mumbles
because it hoards secrets
because it is more stylish than you
...