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
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.
You look out the window.
You don't raise your hand and there is
some essential beauty in your fingers,
which aren't even drumming, but lie
flat and peaceful.
The teacher repeats the question.
Outside the window, on an overhanging branch,
a robin ...
Pink dandruff of some tree
afloat on the swimming pool.
What's that bird?
I'm not from around here.
My mail will probably be forwarded
as quietly as this pink fluff
or a question or morphine
or impatience or a mistake
or the infinite method