Driving Lesson

The first time I sat behind
the wheel of a car I was
just-turned seventeen. Parking lot of
the Baptist church; the neighborhood in
deep summer, the man across the street
steadily planting flowers.
My dad in the passenger seat, my little sister
in the back, the blue Oldsmobile
right in the middle of the lot, empty
except for one tan sedan
in a corner—an evening practice for the organist,
or a summer-night janitor. I removed,
at Dad’s instructions, the parking brake,
hesitated, took my foot off
the brake pedal, and as three-thousand pounds
of American-made steel groaned forward
over gray asphalt, I felt
tears leak from my eyes, hot and fast,
just a few, unstoppable. They laughed
at me, but I knew, with the vision
withheld from the middle-aged and from the child,
that something had died that night,
under the summer twilight,
and that that elephantine lurch
would kill again.

A thought

There's much to be said about
falling in love in spring--indeed
that's the right time; for everything a season. But think
for a minute about falling
in winter--a time of mystery. Then
month by month you'll
lose your clothes, and I
my sadness. Glory in the revelation.

Holy Sonnet-- attempt #3

[GAAAAAAH! Not even close.]

You smiled at me, a divine smile;
Your gentle face seemed lit from within.
All others, who I always understood as traps,
Binding me to them in fascination,
Have very simply
Dimmed.
Their pretty flesh is now like dirt to me.
You'll be the consummation of my dreams.

The Transfiguration-- attempt #2

[I CAN'T GET IT RIGHT!!!]

I don't know you, but I saw heavenly beauty in your face.
Your gentle smile at me was lit from within, and
All others, who I always understood as traps,
Infinite sources of fascination,
Have very simply
dimmed.
Let them come and let them go.
Their pretty flesh is now like dirt to me.
You'll be the consummation of my dreams.

2 AM

[A poor imitation of William Carlos Williams-- for class]

Night hangs silent over
the city and below
the sky the sidewalk
stretches on

and on and
at its end and
in orange lamplight
he stands silent,
smoking

2 AM Apollo

The night is cold, the night is dark
and he is there.
Distant
He is there
Smoking
He is there
Silent
He is there
I want no more
He is there

Friday

If there’s a god in heaven

or anywhere else

please bring me my poet

please send him to me

Miracle

I wonder if I'm sick, or seeing things.
They chatter loudly, all of them unaware
Of the quiet miracle unfolding here.
Wild-eyed, I watch this beaming apparition:

Your blond head bent over the desk
Your shoulders tensed in concentration,
And your beautiful hands,
writing.

Amour [title changed to preserve anonymity]

No, not again. As I read his poem, I feel it—shaky but getting stronger with each line—gravity, pulling me, pulling me. Familiar, final. I close my eyes and picture his long honey-colored hair, his broad shoulders. There is no fighting. I assume the familiar position, teetering, and gravity pulls me, pulls me, down.

Fantasy on a music lesson

I just signed up for a class,
but of course there’s always more in my head.
As he sounds the purest notes,
I can’t help but let my eyes drift to his face
and muse about private lessons.