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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,

Mopping things.

My hand is a white spider, a starfish useless for holding,

unfolding,, blinded.

Crayons, coffee cups, swimming caps.

Missing naps.


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.


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.

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