Unable to bear the uncertainty of the future, we consulted seers, mediums, stock market gurus,

We used to strike sparks off each other. Our eyes would meet or our hands, & the blue lightning of love

After the teach-in we smeared the walls with our solidarity, looked left, & saw Marx among the angels,

Baby-witch, my daughter, my worship of the Goddess alone condemns you to the fire. . .

Exploring each other’s depths, that surge of connection which makes the world seem sane,

For Naomi Lazard Sometimes I can’t wait until I… —Naomi Lazard My friends are tired. The ones who are married are tired

For a long time unhappy with my man, I blamed men, blamed marriage, blamed the whole bleeding world,

You whom I hoped to reach by writ… you beyond the multicolored tangle of telephone wires, you with your white paper soul trampled in transit,

She left him in death’s egg, the bone sack & the gunny sack… the bag of down & feathers-all… Somehow he couldn’t get back. It was night,

Regret is the young girl who sits… & stares at her hands. They are bluer than shadows in sno… They are bloodless as fear. Her fingernail moons are white.

Narrowing life because of the fear… narrowing it between the dust mote… narrowing the pink baby between the green-limbed monsters, & the drooling idiots,

When I am an old lady the young men will come to me & sit trembling at my trembling

There is only one story: he loved her, then stopped loving her, while she did not stop loving him.

I sit at home at my desk alone as I used to do on many sunday afternoons when you came back to me,

What makes a poet? Many have tried to guess. Is it a voice like a conduit, a plainspokenness to grief,