It takes a long, smooth stroke practiced carefully
over many years and made with one steady motion.
You do not really cut glass, you score its length
In a cold empty room, down
in the basement, the janitor
had rigged up an old buffer
from the shoe factory - it was
If you were fortunate enough to live
on a planet circling a sun-like star
in the Large Magellanic Cloud -
One of life's simplest moments: the approaching of the first few drops of a summer rain. That it was coming, all along, and had been predicted since mid-morning, by neighbors pointing to the dark western sky, and by the agitation of robins, and the unusual silence of cicadas - all that was conceded, and understood, while the rain itself would be welcomed, for it would cool the trees and the houses and the grass, and nourish the creatures of the earth in its invisible and lasting way.
Certainly it was expected, and yet as I sat there reading, being drawn into a faraway world, I had entirely forgotten the roof and the porch, and the parched streets, and even the increased tempo of the wind blowing through the trees - and suddenly there it was, that sound, those drops scattering, nothing overwhelming, just the announcement, the presence, of rain come at last.
At journey's end, forced to debark
and follow ramps
That funnel them down through the dark,
into a damp,
It is someone's revenge - but whose? Custer
was shaved this close by Crazy Horse, the bluster
of the Young Pretender's troops smoothed out
in ‘Forty-Six. At Marathon, the rout
No, not a dream, but here, now.
A vast metal shed, where chickens
crammed in wire cages are hoisted
for slaughter - to have their throats
No motion has she now, no force
Is it your breath, that once warmed me?
Say you remember—even if all that stays
Is no more lasting than the silver foil
Of quarter moon, or the west wind's toil
Upon the deep, among the darkening waves.