Mary Ruefle Poems

It was one of those mornings the earth seemed
not to have had any rest at all, her face dour
and unrefreshed, no particular place-- subway,
park-- expressed sufficient interest in present circumstances
...

Ann Galbraith
loves Barry Soyers.

Please pray for Lucius Fenn
...

Beloved, men in thick green coats came crunching
through the snow, the insignia on their shoulders
of uncertain origin, a country I could not be sure of,
a salute so terrifying I heard myself lying to avoid
...

The teacher asks a question.
You know the answer, you suspect
you are the only one in the classroom
...

Pink dandruff of some tree
afloat on the swimming pool.
What's that bird?
...

I take the bird on the woodpile,
separate it from its function, feather
by feather. I blow up its scale.
...

Nothing curves at sea,
and the men there die abruptly,
in imitation of the fact, except
...

The mountain skies were clear
except for the umlaut of a cloud
over the village.
...

My husband and I were arguing about a bench we wanted to buy and put in part of our backyard, a part which is actually a meadow of sorts, a half acre with tall grasses and weeds and the occasional wild flower because we do not mow it but leave it scrubby and unkempt.
...

The last time I saw father alive he was using
a black umbrella, closed, to beat off some pigeons
hanging outside the marble portals of a museum.
We were visitors, walking very slowly, so father
...