LIGHT

Starlight for my father at fifteen

Still awake at five in the morning

High in his attic, standing by the window.

A flickering dream for my mother,

Fourteen and just about to wake up

A mile or two away. It's a Saturday;

He will go to the synagogue and ask God

Some probing questions. She will go

To a movie and gather evidence

Of how reality can be constructed

From shadows and light and fear and love.

FOR VW AT 84

I have decided Virginia Woolf may live

An additional twenty-five years

Beyond her suicide, the pond waters

Indignantly refusing to drown

A Glory of British Letters

Imagine her writing reviews of plays

By Angry Young Men or commenting

On Suez and Sputnik and leaving

Almost finished a brilliant jeu d'esprit

In which John Profumo awakens

In Hyde Park with Christine Keeler

And a demon who offers him

A gently used wish with a chip in it.

A LONG WAY DOWN THE TRACK

Reach in your pocket;
There's a ticket there
For the Midnight Special
Or the Hellbound Train
Or even the Train
That's Bound for Glory
But perhaps,

Persuaded by me,
You may ride

The train from Timbuktu
To Kalamazoo
To Kalamazoo
And back.

ANOTHER OF AESRED'S

Rolling to his execution

Captain Brown said

"It is a beautiful country;

I’ve not had the pleasure

Until now of seeing it."

If you don’t hear

The poetry

There will just be

No pleasing you today.

MISCONSTRUCTION

Because we were in a hurry and because
We were tired and because we
Didn't care very much we left the hours
Entirely out of order so six at night followed
Hard on the heels of ten in the morning
Which gave way to three in the morning which
Is an hour filled with wolves who decided
To stay for a while and were irritated
To disappear at the stroke of noon.

RELIC

The hour looks sandblasted

Any maker’s mark gone;
The minutes, blurred and dull,
Their sharp edges lost
Are oddly shaped
Their seconds having drifted
And accumulated; a few
Are chipped or cracked. Once
I'd have offered nothing,
Or next to nothing, but now
It is the first time
I’ve seen in a while and,
Miraculously, still functions.

Perhaps it had been part
Of a long night, the sort
Where it is a long march
From three a.m. to four, so the wolves
(That hour is filled with wolves)
Close their yellow eyes and sleep.
What wonder if the rest of the day
Grows impatient and goes on
Leaving this hour behind?

NAR

Did the fool at the wedding look grimly

At the bride's sister, knowing she'll one day marry

A man named Moses Getreu and on another day,

 Have a child who'll write letters to her

On Snediker Street and on a third day,

Play a long last song, take a last deep breath,

And jump from a roof, meeting an angel

On her way to the street below?