RUN IN STOCKINGS
I once knew a man who admired the run in women’s stockings,
Not the accusatory “O” of a hole,
Nor the snag---a weepy thing!
He wanted the spider’s ladder, the lace of ruin.
His preference--a milky calf peeked from black,
The bony knee, the poking polished toe, the shin.
But nothing better than the thigh, outside or in.
Creeping running sin.
He said, “Everyone should have something in their lives that they
think is beautiful.”
He sought the woman who knew and didn’t care, who plucked the
threads—on her black harp.
Oh, to weave his fingers through. To push his thumb, to coax the
top an inch, and inch again.
Then from side to side, try to learn what
degree of tension it would take
to unravel, thin and break.
OCTOBER 2, 2000 / 10-2-00
This is the day of dropping things,
My hand is a white spider, a starfish useless for holding,
Crayons, coffee cups, swimming caps.
This is a day of forgetting things---appointments, wedding rings,
Powdering---the bottoms, my nose—who knows
Letting things go like brushing my hair,
This spring air chills my state of mind.
A state of fragility
You are waiting at the nursery school. Come early, come early.
Let us experience the treasure, and the loss of the treasure, and the
getting of more or less.
And the chance that it could change.
Flush with the first kiss of prosperity, blushing with the secret we
You have always been lucky and think all news is good news.
HELLO TO SUMMER
Summer’s waiting at the gate
And May must greet her soon.
Blossoms burst from green-eyed buds
To welcome eager June.
July sizzles, waves her flag,
Unfurling garden hoses
While in a hammock, swayed by breezes
Lazy August dozes.