The cattle carry their birds out from under
The tresses of the willow tree, past
The Ancient Ship and into the blooming pond.

Like the old phoenix which, the more it got
Burnt up, (recycling its own stuff, no doubt,
For it did not burn down) the more it grew—

To sing old songs to little children in
A foreign language made intime thereby;
To pose a riddle, putting one more spin

Cast from a simile of Paul of Tarsus
Thence depicted as an anchor (ancora
Speme—there’s still hope—get it?) and by suchlike

Eighteen years ago my cousin Arthur
   died alone in a hotel
         in Perugia,

One boy was hard-of-hearing,
red-haired, freckled, never smiled,
another wore a white bib,

How do you find yourself in literature?
All blue-eyed, drinking from green bottles.
Do you think I’ve done the sky right?

In first grade I was positive there were
furry creatures called tisathees.
Every morning we intoned, “My country

My internist said you are unnaturally large.
Had I caught gonorrhea from some co-ed?
(In my encyclopedia, you come right between

She asserts herself at the damnedest times—
when they’re working out at the gym, say,
or having a brandy and cigar with the boys.