Tuesday, October 1, 2013

I asked my bookseller what to read without a government

I did, but I asked her
also why she didn't of-
fer valet parking, so
buried is her shop in
a cobbled mews. Admit-
tedly, I was not of a
mood to be realistic,
And I was lucky in my

     Pierced to the deep rock
     with noon sunlight,
     Fisher Pond
     by nightfall lies
     under a starless sky
     opaque. At their fire
     the lovers want
     if only ... Who,
     the hoot owl calls,
     and later, You,
     he seems to say.
     You, and the fog drifts
     into the campfire.

Brooks Haxton
They Lift their
  Wings to Cry
Blue Mountain
Alfred A. Knopf, 2008©


  1. De si belles épaules !
    (So nice shoulders)

  2. Very observant of you to remark upon these vulnerable features, dear fellow, given the predicament of insuring them in our quaint republic - unless, of course, our people are given what they voted for. Just imagine the array of sportive pastimes which must grind to a halt, in view of the notorious injury to which they expose us, unless we're enrolled in a risk pool which all but neutralises their impact. Yet that's just what our radicals propose: the end of play, to say nothing of its commerce as we know it. Thank you for visiting, and for sharpening our argument.