Poetry
Winter 1989
On Reading Cavafy
Without hope, in love with the history that doomed you, you hung on for centuries in a city of rosewater and brine, mud and myrrh, this Alexandria whore of all […]
Poetry
Winter 1989
Teaching My Son to Talk
We go to the farm near nightfall (hardly a farm at all now hemmed in as it is by houses of equal shape and color) though the walls are white […]
Poetry
Winter 1989
Thinking of Jackson Pollock
When I am in my painting, I’m not aware of what I’m doing. It is only after a sort of “get acquainted” period that I see what I have been […]