Mary Ruefle Poems
|1.||Keeping It Simple||8/8/2015|
|2.||The Wife of Mission Rock||9/3/2015|
|6.||The Bunny Gives Us a Lesson in Eternity||10/15/2016|
|7.||Four Anecdotes From the Life of Dang Yo-une||10/15/2016|
|8.||Last on Earth||10/15/2016|
|9.||Mathew Brady Arranging the Bodies||10/15/2016|
|11.||Perpetually Attempting to Soar||10/15/2016|
|12.||Seven Postcards from Dover||10/15/2016|
|15.||Women in Labor||10/15/2016|
|16.||To a Magazine||10/15/2016|
|18.||Recollections of My Christmas Tree||10/15/2016|
Comments about Mary Ruefle
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
though flowers popped up and tokens
dropped down, deep in the turnstiles. And from
the dovecots nothing was released or killed.
No one seemed to mind, though everyone noticed.
If the alphabet died-- even the o collapsing, the l
a lance in its groin-- what of it? The question
'krispies, flakes or loops?'-- always an indicator of
attention-- took a turn for the ...
The teacher asks a question.
You know the answer, you suspect
you are the only one in the classroom
who knows the answer, because the person
in question is yourself, and on that
you are the greatest living authority,
but you don't raise your hand.
You raise the top of your desk
and take out an apple.