The Art of Being Alone: Poems 1952–2009

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62 21 (1962) Perusal a I see a woman looking this way from under her large summer hat I see a dogwood tree behind her I see knots on its trunk A kid’s bike speeds past fountain water is falling I see everything that refuses to halt a bronze statue is being demolished I see ants at my feet I see a dead ant that the ants are carrying I see a hand held out to me I see the sunlight through leaves dancing on the hand and tarot cards spread open I see my resplendent victory b I see a woman She is my grandmother 21 63 I see the gigantic clear eyes of reptiles long extinct I see a lateen sail sway in the ocean current as a sailing ship sinks into the sea The Imperial Guards line up at attention I see their singing skeletons I see a rocky hill plowed I see the same hill burnt and scalded Blood rushes to cheeks Flesh opens up Among the crowds at a Festival I see Medusa’s severed head c I see a woman She once was my love A heart pulsates on a balance that is swaying The shrieking of a newspaper seller courses through the streets I see infinite faces in the world which I was not able to capture films are fading a choo-choo train is running after a horse 64 Various species of angels are impaled on insect pins Martini glasses are raised for a toast A record is playing I see a delicate scar on the record d I see a woman I see my wife I see tears slowly welling up I see translucent milk squeezed out I see a broad back a cotton ball being torn a firm ripe fruit and an artless drawing of the fruit I see all that I have thoroughly looked at I see myself refusing to look at it again A long polished hallway slithers away like a snake I see lips suddenly coming at me in a hot shower e I see a woman She is my daughter 21 • 1962 21 65 I see her belly button shaped like a question mark I see idle light caught in the fine hair on her earlobe Caught in the folds of a loose robe I cannot arrive at dawn I see blood oozing over it recovery being denied the thick layer of dust on the Moon’s surface and the lakes all dried up an open forehead offered to the sky a love like a thrown pebble I see what I am not allowed to see in a pensive look on her gentle face f I see a woman my mother an empty urn as blue as the sky outside the windowpane I see a sheet of music laid open and candlelight illuminating harmonic chords a broken pearl necklace and an icicle hanging from the water pipe I see a toddler being whipped a blackboard that cannot be erased 66 ocean water brims over in numerous verses I see my father crying and screaming in the dark I see myself being born g I see a woman That is me I see a face being placed over another face I see a hidden passage of flesh Images that are patched together in the depth of a mind Witty words that forever aspire to but never achieve perfection A mold of buttocks that stays forever warm on an old large bed A heated towel forgotten in a path between boulders I see a kitchen, shining, with no one around A book that has never been read I see a shaman in a trance behind a shabby blanket 21 • 1962 21 67 Ad lib of the day Whiskers whiskers grow whiskers grow on men’s chins around their lips whiskers grow with the dawn whiskers grow like shoots of some strange plant whiskers grow for women’s tender cheeks whiskers grow like Salvador Dali’s whiskers grow with all their might whiskers grow facing the sun whiskers grow on men but they shave every morning they shave worrying about bus schedules they shave the razors are Gillette Valette they shave terrified of women’s caresses they shave while bleeding they shave from sideburn to jaw a dead fish slides inside a mirror they...