The earwig perished on a page,
a scholar's life impressed, abridged;
thumb-notches deep in Webster's work
the curious mite inscribed his mark.
...
Why do these odes make such a dainty choice,
'Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird, '
of metaphors in measure? The human voice
favors—so to sing—feathers made-to-word
...
(For Wallace Stevens)
The scholars stalking first ideas ransack
his park for origins; they frisk each bush
...
The unction cools; the saving taper glows,
Dripping strands of sacramental brede.
The priest, his missal splayed like wings, bestows
The rite. The sliding bedside curtains cede
...
A screen door claps shut—
bouncing under a porch light
chalky moths yo-yo.
...
The ivy's white cedillas scale Harvard's
bricks as summer students slouch on green-
swards trim as billiard cloths, riffling pages
veined with enigmas, tyros roused to master
...
Her confidantes endorsed her trim divorce,
clumped like raisins in the courtroom's calm,
noting how quickly a decree can disperse
bridge teams, guest lists, golf dates, a common name.
...
Il faut cultiver notre jardin. -Voltaire.
I cultivate my garden plot, though bound
within this toad for safety, I don't protest
...
True art, the activist declared, protests
societal wrongs, and militantly attests
a social vision—or remains mere artifice.
'Exactly, ' the painter said, 'protest like this'—
...
The evangelical sun exults,
a meadow floats, and tulips blare,
daffodils and cardinals shine
in bronzy air.
...