Mark Doty Poems
|3.||Brian Age Seven||9/4/2011|
|4.||Heaven For Stanley||12/8/2014|
|6.||To Bessie Drennan||1/3/2003|
|12.||A Green Crab's Shell||1/20/2003|
|14.||At The Gym||1/20/2003|
|15.||Long Point Light||1/3/2003|
|17.||A Display Of Mackerel||1/13/2003|
|18.||The Ancient World||1/3/2003|
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 ...
Under Grand Central's tattered vault
--maybe half a dozen electric stars still lit--
one saxophone blew, and a sheer black scrim
billowed over some minor constellation
under repair. Then, on Broadway, red wings
in a storefront tableau, lustrous, the live macaws
preening, beaks opening and closing