Three Sonnets
Stony Grass
The black and white that passed in years before
My birth I channel in at forty-eight,
Before the imitated Ginsberg bore
His howl into the dormitory, late
Behind New Jersey’s greystone gates and grass,
Before the cigarette my father lit
Before the Exeunt was labeled, ass
And tackle where I brought the knife. The Hit-
And-Split? He hit that note precisely. Why
Detectives’ sharp and anxious questions pass
Before my mother sees me suspect by
The window onto March and stony grass
I might have known, had I, not turning in,
Turned out to see beyond my father’s chin.
Painting Keuka Lake
When I get to my studio I think
I’ll add an energetic little girl
Who runs along the dock to cast her pink-
And yellow-bobbered line into the swirl
Of greenish-gray acrylic–that’s the lake
On Monday afternoon.
I hit the whites,
Illuminating purple clouds that rake
And scud across the bluff and slide from sight.
(It’s cold and I work fast on hands and knees)
Alizarin and phthalo blue are churned
To capture temperature, the light and trees,
The wind—
Forgetting everything I’ve learned,
I push the image. Nature pushes back.
I counter with a little girl’s attack.
The Parts of Mouse
Delineate the parts of “Mouse” again because
I want to sleep. But show me, wake me if
Your kinder-spelling fails.
The little paws,
Attentive ears, the whiskers blue and stiff.
I stayed up late to hear the Sultan’s plea,
To see the ring of orange shadows pool
About the kettle.
Everyone will see
Those beady eyes. And all your friends at school
Will envy this new diagram of yours.
And I will slowly call to mind when I
Awake, the harmony, the altered course
Of colors through the mosque, the desert sky.
You’ll finish by the time I’m seeing straight.
You’ll be half dressed at breakfast,
We’ll be late.
