ART HISTORY

Studying in Rome, the painter Fragonard 

Called up the ghost of Michelangelo 

Who, unable to sculpt, had become 

A cicerone for spirits visiting Rome.

When not telling misleading stories 

To tourists, Michelangelo haunted 

The studios of the French Academy

Jeering at the students painting there.

He agreed, in return for a one-third share 

Of Fragonard's soul, to allow the painter 

To use some figures from the Sistine Chapel

As servants. Back in France one of them 

Sneaked into The Dream of Love 

And slept right through the Revolution. 

Though still asleep, he's kept up

With the times, has acquired an agent

And will, for a suitable fee, dream 

About whatever you wish.

M. P., ESQ.

My old office remakes itself;

It's large enough that a long table,

Useful for collating, and a couch, 

Useful for falling asleep,

Are almost lost in it. 

There are three desks, one of them

Austere, neat, functional.

That one isn't mine.

The cabinets burst with files;

Smoke from a pipe lost since 1986

Dances in the air. Memos 

Wait to be ignored. A scarecrow

Sits at my desk, writing letters

Making calls, turning to the window,

To watch the new moon rise,

Though he knows this brings bad luck.

Marvin comes in, sits on the couch,

Says "The stories I could tell you

About this couch!" He never told them 

But I'd not mind hearing one tonight.

BETTER

Since he scorns dishonesty, my better self

Called at three in the morning to tell me

He'd prepared a resume and was thinking

Of finding someone else to be better than.

We've been through this before; usually

He waits until the sun's risen. Perhaps

The fact that he no longer has a shadow

Has changed his sleeping habits. I assume

My worse self will dissuade him again.

My better self went off once for ten months

Saying he needed to get himself together.

Some days friends filled in; some days temps --

Mostly students from the tough school on Baker --

Did a few hours as their community service.

My worse self was quite helpful. He read

The manual and we took turns being better

Except on weekends, when we were both worse.

SAMUEL PALMER'S "CORNFIELD BY MOONLIGHT WITH THE EVENING STAR"

Shadow stands on sudden feet; the walker 

With the broad hat must have a dog

This night not meant for walking alone.

The wheat-ghosts whisper: 

The evening star grew wings

And now the roaring moon's on fire! 

The dog made from shadow, still half-made,

Turns his head towards the moonlit man

Walking a road there because he walks it

His high, crooked staff held before him.

PICTURE

My father drew angels quite well -- 

Stickmen, with wings and benign,

Wary expressions. Occasionally  

He drew wolfmen, sometimes 

Standing quietly in a crowd 

Or singing as part of a chorus.

So far as I know, none of his pictures 

Include both angels and wolfmen

Though the combination seems natural.

What if, times being hard, each

Had to perform the other's job?

God might give His wolfmen messages 

When they weren't loitering in Heaven,

Howling extravagant songs of praise 

While angels grew fur at the whim

Of some deceased moon's cessant ghost.

If I were my father I'd draw you a picture 

Of these angels and wolfmen meeting 

To exchange tales and sympathy. You'd say

"Yes, this and no other way is just how I

Believe they must have looked."

EPIPHANY (R)

In a strongly-worded communique
Eight leading religions and the Apple Corporation
Have expressed concern over God's recent decision
To manifest Himself as a posse of high school girls.
"While we continue to venerate and revere You,"
The statement begins, "we must admit we are troubled
By Your appearing among us as seven girls
At Mattawan High School. With the greatest respect, Lord,
Are You out of Your Mind?" At a press conference,
Shondanique Davies, who has emerged as spokesman
For the collective God, commented "Whatever."
She admitted there were some problems in adjusting
To being a collective Supreme Deity. "Rhonda,
For example. She needs to make up her mind:
In or out? One day she's everyone's best friend
And the next she walks by like We're not even there."
Rhonda Jacobson has been unavailable for comment
While She studies for  an exam in World History II.

AN ADOLESCENT

My mother's death

Will be thirteen soon.

I've no idea

What to buy it.

When it was small

We got along well;

It was endlessly curious

About its origin

"Tell me about her;

How short was she?

What did you talk about

That last time? Did

She talk about me?"

It's different now

Always languishing

Against walls

Pale-eyed, thin, too tall

For its own strength.

RUSTY BIRDS

Every grackle sounds like a rusty gate.

More; they all sound like the same one.

This has been going on for some time;

The gate which taught grackles its noise

Must be gone by now. No maintenance

Could have long extended the life of a thing

So gularous. Perhaps, strolling free of Paradise,

Eve called back to the angel whose flaming sword

Turned every which way "Aroush! That gate

Will send you mad if you don't give it some oil!"

THE ONE WITH THE LUTE

Look! There, about two thirds of the way up

On the right side of the painting! That 

Is no fairy but an angel who, on her way,

To yet another Annunciation has strayed 

Into Henry Fuseli's Titania Caressing Bottom 

The real fairies look anywhere but at her; 

Only Bottom, who has his ass' head

Atop a body by Michelangelo, glances at her

From the corner of his eye. She plays a lute

And whispers her news of great joy

Into his hairy and astonished ear.

BUTTON

The last public letter writer  

Found a button on the street

Pale brown, a six-holed operculum;

She recognized it as one fallen

From Death's collar. (All his buttons

Have six holes; all are opercula

Of the type called Shiva's-eye.)

She cannot sew -- her cat

Does the mending for both of them –

But asked the photographer Atget

To include the button in her portrait.

It sits on her table, next to some pens.

It's always there, unlike her cat

Or the letter writer herself. If Death

Needs his button, he'll know

Exactly where to look.

THEOS

It may be that the gods with whom

We most concern ourselves are not

The great gods. The Fates fear not Jove

But walk warily at dawn and twilight

Lest they meet Carnea, goddess of doorknobs.

For three years Furina Noctambula kept Mars

Under a copper thimble until she recalled

Where she'd put him for safe-keeping.

STORAGE

When the gate through which the Messiah will come
Was torn down, its shadow was cut loose,
By frail ghosts from the Cockeysville Pesthouse.
They brushed it smooth, rolled it up in brown paper
And tied it neatly with bits of red yarn and twine.
What possible use could it be to rebuild the gate
If its shadow hadn't been preserved?

OFFICE (R)

One slow Thursday the Unmoved Mover
Emanated an office which, by natural process,
Immediately filled itself with file cabinets,
Cubicles, desks, phones, shredders, agendas,
Interns, meetings, and many things which are,
So far as can be told, people. Serving
The Unmoved is not easy. Aristotle
Decided it should spend all eternity
Contemplating itself contemplating
Itself contemplating. Aristotle
Insisted this would be enormous fun.
Efforts by the publicity department
Have not managed to persuade anyone
That Aristotle was correct.

AESRED ASKS ABOUT OUR GHOSTS

Port W. is too poor to have ghosts of its own

This embarrasses us; Great Neck, the next town over,

Is lousy with them. Mornings, they clog the streets

Arguing about the gold standard or playing

Ringolevio. Nights, they ride Dreadnought motorbikes

Along Middleneck Road, from Brokaw Lane

To Liberty Street, hoping to scare the livestock.

We had a ghost, once. He had no references

And looked unhealthy but he worked cheap.

He'd manifest for a few hours every night

Translucent and plucking fretfully on a mandolin

But he took sick and died on us. The ghost

Of our dead ghost -- and this makes us sore –

Shook off the dust of Port and now haunts

An iron gazebo in a Great Neck park.

CLASSMATE

When I was in high school

There was a designated thief

Tall and dark, a shadowy boy

Who never joked.

We knew Parrison was a thief

Because he stole things

(Or did he steal things

Because we knew he was a thief?)

As far as I know, no one

Complained to authority;

He was our thief and we

Were quietly proud to have him.

Once, he stole my bus pass

But — fair is fair — he later

Sold me someone else's.

MORE WRAGGE

A large space divided
Into diverse parcels
Wherein dwell
Diverse widows,
20' x 17'
(The spaces; the widows
Are of diverse sizes. If
One is in the market
For a particular sort of widow,
Here or nowhere
Will she be found)
One lodger --
Call her Wragg --
Pretends to be a widow
Since "infanticide"
Does not recommend one
To the law students
Who pay her little enough
To clean their rooms
Which she does badly enough
As is to be expected
Of a woman who has seen
170 winters
Though she looks not a day
More than 106.

THE VILLAGE KING

Towards the end, his court had shrunk down

To one: Ruth. Mornings, she'd summon herself

To order, read minutes, debate, rebut, enact.

Afternoons, she spread and believed seditious rumors

And plotted rebellion. When the moon rose

She'd arrest herself as a suspicious character

With no visible means of support and sleep in jail.

As arch-traitor, she sold the King to his enemies

But died heroically, defending him to the last

In her roles as childhood friend, valet, lover

And brevet five-star general.

THE PHOTOGRAPH ON PAGE 29

Is not my grandfather Joe, but it's close;

The mustache is dead right and the face

Could belong to a much older brother

With whom Joe would have fought

Because they were too much alike.

(His genuine brothers were tall and gentle

They weren't dapper or fiery and they slouched

Having no need to make the most of every inch.)

It's startling to see Joe's eyes here, his head-tilt;

The picture was taken in 1926, so Joe's wife

Has not yet slipped on ice, has not died

Having a baby just far enough along to live.

When I knew my grandfather, he posed

Just this way for a picture, his right hand

Parallel to the knife-straight seam of his pants

His left held breast-high, fingers slightly clawed

Reaching for something or warding something off

Or making a signal and expecting no answer.

COURT WHISPERS

My father and God find a quiet corner

In the court of the last Ming emperor

To have a long discussion.

The courtier ghosts give them space

Convinced that to one of them

They owe their existence. Still,

The ghosts watch surreptitiously

God raises a spread-fingered hand;

My father cocks his head. (Some words

Entering from the right ear

Have meanings other than they would

When entering from the left.)

The courtiers will report to the Emperor:

God has urged some course of action;

Nat Silver is considering it.