PRAYER

 

The oni's god is powerful

But dangerous. He is also 

Deaf. Before praying 

Try banging on a pot for

Fifteen minutes or so

To get his attention.

CHANGE

 

After years of threats and promises my better self

Has found at last someone else to be better than. 

This has, of course, required considerable paperwork

And an administrative restructuring. For now,

I am myself only on nights and weekends

While working -- provisionally -- from my better self's office

(He left his file cabinets locked but my worse self

Opened them with a paper clip.)

GENERAL FITZWILLIAMS' WILL

 

To the maid Mary Rocke he left 

Stocks, some cash, an annuity

All his shirts, two nightgowns,

His lace ruffs, a snuffbox

With his dear wife's picture on it 

And his gold dumb repeater watch.

(A dumb repeater keeps time 

Just as well as those that speak; 

It simply doesn't brag about it.)

NB

 

I am a note in the middle --

I think I'm in the middle --

Of a very long notebook. The author

Wrote me down meaning, I'm sure,

To return and work me into a poem

But he never has. I blame his habit

Of writing in no order so page 17

May be written after page 206. Also,

He often writes in the dark. I am,

I'd say, quite a good idea. If you know

The author tell him he could do worse

Than look again at page 551 

Of Notebook 46B, about halfway down.

SIGNS

 

When she's six blocks away

The windows begin to shudder in their frames.

When she's five blocks away

Every towel in the linen closet refolds itself.

When she's four blocks off

The credit cards in your wallet cancel themselves.

Three blocks? Your inherited silverware

Now has strangers' initials deep-etched in.

Two blocks; there's no time to find a new reflection;

You must comb your hair and shave without one.

When she's one block away, all the doors in your house 

Unlock, then lock and then unlock themselves again.

LOOKING AT THE FIRE

 

Anne Damer, sculptor, stands on the roof

Of Richard Cosway's house, watching 

The Opera House burn; her left arm 

Rests on a concrete sphere, gilded 

To lool like the Sun; her right hand touches

A statue of Minerva which will speak

If it's in the mood and finds you attractive.

A spark flying across Suffolk Street

Lands in her hand leaving a scar

In the shape of bird in flight. Years later,

Dying, she'll write a will directing

She be buried with a mallet, the bones

Of her favorite dog, an apron 

And a selection of new-sharpened chisels.

THOUGH AN UMBRELLA MIGHT BE MORE EFFECTIVE

 

Though the Third Avenue El 

Was torn down in 1956

You find enough of its shadow

To take shelter from the rain