Sunny and Cold

Walking up Court Street this morning
I had just passed a scattering of paper clips,
hundreds of them, silver and glinting,
and I thought of all the papers I could hold together,
old love letters and poems, little scraps
that say not much more than 'bird' or 'peach,'
and then, suddenly, a boy, no older than seven,
flew by me on his scooter; hey, I wanted to yell,
but then I saw where he had been rushing:
the mailbox. The blue mailbox. Our mailbox.
He had a half dozen or so colored envelopes,
and he worked the jaw of the mailbox open
and dropped the letters in, then he opened it again
to make sure, I imagine, that they had fallen.

I love that he opened it again.
I love that he wanted to be sure.

Longing #129

To have spent the day by the ocean
and walked for so long and so far
that I have to wipe the sand off my feet
before crawling into bed.

You?

The Golden Nest

Breaks my heart every time I read it...

Mantra
by Ruth Stone

When I am sad
I sing
remembering the red wing blackbirds clack
When I want no thing
except to turn time back
to what I had
before love made me sad

When I forget to weep
I hear the peeping tree toads
creeping up the bark
Love lies asleep
and dreams that everything
is in its golden nest
and I am caught there too
when I forget

Happy Sunday!!!

From the Callihans.

Hoping your weekend was filled with
candy-stuffed unicorns

and moustache-backings shaped like the loveliest of birds!

Translators Needed

Yesterday, walking down Broadway, I heard two young men who appeared to be NYU students talking. "SHE SNUCK A SNIZZ IN YOUR SNOOZE, HILLDOG!" For the life of me I can't figure out what it could mean. She interrupted your nap? Thoughts?

The Marlboro Moon

In my dreams, I often sneak cigarettes.

Last night I climbed thirty-two flights,
desperate, looking for something.
When I got to the top of the stairs: an attic,
and by the window: a crystal ashtray, a silver lighter and a single Marlboro Light.
Approximate seconds since my last cigarette:
141, 912, 726

Delayed Appreciation & Elizabeth Bishop

My father has a tendency to give me gifts that I don't realize I love. Take the case of the gift he gave me for my thirtieth birthday: a blue pitcher; a not-quite-ordinary blue pitcher that I had no idea how to use. And so...I stuck it in the basement where it grew dustier and dustier until one day having stumbled upon it (after bumping my head on the too-low ceiling), I filled it with hot water to keep at my desk and, well, you know the rest. There are poets like this too. Yeats, of course, but Bishop too, these days I'm feeling Bishop especially. When I was younger I wanted nothing to do with her; now, though, I crave her and can hardly imagine how anyone who knows her work could not crave it. Here, a morsel:

Late Air
by Elizabeth Bishop

From a magician's midnight sleeve
the radio-singers
distribute all their love-songs
over the dew-wet lawns.
And like a fortune-teller's
their marrow-piercing guesses are whatever you believe.

But on the Navy Yard aerial I find
better witnesses
for love on summer nights.
Five remote lights
keep their nests there; Phoenixes
burn quietly, where the dew cannot climb.