AGO

 

There's a picture of Death

Taken when he was young

And still feeling his way.

He's in a boat, leaning back,

Looking into the sky. A woman

Sits opposite him with the oars

Doing all the work.

HOW IT WORKS

 

At various points in the sky there are

Rabbits posted. Every so often they leave

Their holes (you cannot imagine a hole in

The sky because you are not a

Rabbit) and see the Sun barreling down at

Them. "You again!" they mutter and give it a

Hard kick to speed it on its way.

HESITATION

 

The crow flies off.

A moment later

His shadow follows

LOOKING FOR RELIGION

 

Every now and then Cotyto,

The Thracian goddess of immorality

Leaves a pamphlet in my mailbox

Or a flyer under my door handle

Advising me she's still doing business

At the old address -- the one

I never could find fifty years ago.

ANGER

 

I read that one overmastered by anger

Should pray to St. Jerome. Having no reason

To walk down Seventh Avenue, where he sleeps

Most nights in doorways, I haven't seen Jerome

In years but, being angry, sought him out.

We sat together, not speaking, being angry together.

MIRACLES

 

As if she didn't have enough on her plate

She wakes to find she's become a saint

With unlimited access to the illimitable Grace of God

She slams her coffee mug down, breaking it

Then irritably makes the pieces reassemble.

MONUMENT

 

As everyone knows, Gian Giacomo Trivulzio

Led the French invasion of Milan in 1499

And later commissioned Leonardo da Vinci

To build him a tomb which -- no surprise! --

Was never built. His tombless ghost haunts

Leonardo's designs, frightening no one

WORKMANSHIP

 

If we did our job right you'll scarcely hear it:

Just a very soft click when twilight starts

If we were in a hurry, though, there might be

A rasp or a shrill squeak. We've an arrangement

With certain corvids for such occasions.

Who make themselves conspicuous so you'll think

It was just a contrary grackle or some angry crows.

OUT

 

When he was a clothing cutter my grandfather Max

Didn't go home during busy season but slept,

As did the other workers, on the cutting tables

Or on piles of fabric. At the beginning of the season

Their dreams expected to find them in their beds

And, disappointed, might be seen moving slowly

Through the late-night streets, cursing their ill-fortune.

Max's friend Shepsie -- his real name is lost now

And may have been lost then -- had just one dream

It was ragged from having been dreamt so often

And though the tailors did their best for it,

Sewing up holes and patching it with remnants,

The police sometimes arrested it for vagrancy.