Mark Doty Poems
|2.||Brian Age Seven||9/4/2011|
|4.||Heaven For Stanley||12/8/2014|
|9.||To Bessie Drennan||1/3/2003|
|12.||A Green Crab's Shell||1/20/2003|
|13.||At The Gym||1/20/2003|
|14.||Long Point Light||1/3/2003|
|16.||A Display Of Mackerel||1/13/2003|
|18.||The Ancient World||1/3/2003|
Comments about Mark Doty
You weren't well or really ill yet either;
just a little tired, your handsomeness
tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought
to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace.
I didn't for a moment doubt you were dead.
I knew that to be true still, even in the dream.
You'd been out--at work maybe?--
having a good day, almost energetic.
We seemed to be moving from some old house
where we'd lived, boxes everywhere, things
in disarray: that was the story of my dream,
but even asleep I was shocked out of the narrative
by your face, the physical fact of ...
The Ancient World
Today the Masons are auctioning
their discarded pomp: a trunk of turbans,
gemmed and ostrich-plumed, and operetta costumes
labeled inside the collar "Potentate"
and "Vizier." Here their chairs, blazoned
with the Masons' sign, huddled
like convalescents, lean against one another
on the grass. In a casket are rhinestoned poles