In Praise Of

In Praise Of You told another prof I had more brains in my little finger than everyone you knew combined. I stretched my little finger back and forth when he told me. We watched brainlets unravel by the nerveload.

After You Got Angry

After You Got Angry My housemate heard a sound that groaned then sloughed off then gathered nasal steam then rose to an aching sob then stopped so short that she tiptoed into my room while I was trying to breathe again and woke me to tell me I had been screaming

The Poetry Man

The Poetry Man You crept into your office each day around eight, not because you embraced mornings, but because you couldn't work in the small Back Bay apartment. Your son was five, I think. He bored you. Your office held no books. I never saw you nap, but then again, I only bearded you in your den late afternoons. More of a lair. You nursed the desk. Several of us spotted the wine in the drawer.

Hoping

Hoping The Myth: That we met once more, laughed, apologized, laughed some more, and I showed you my CK poem, all shiny and wrapped in CK-type images and tropes. We laughed again. The Reality: I kept hoping.

At the Harvard Club

Poems Dedicated to CK Williams (1936-2015) At the Harvard Club At the Harvard Club, as you read, two well-monied Newton ladies examined you as if you were a prize Sheltie. One said, “His lines are so long.” The other said, “I don’t understand his poems, but he’s so handsome.” I wanted to say, “His lines look like him. Long, sleek, careful curly beard and self-referring. Think Virgil in hell.” The ladies went right up to you after you finished to get your autograph. I snuck out for air because I had trouble breathing you every time.