Nine Horses Read Free Page A

creature
    with a soft face who played the cello.
    And the reason I am writing this
    on the back of a manila envelope
    now that they have left the train together
    is to tell you that when she turned
    to lift the large, delicate cello
    onto the overhead rack,
    I saw him looking up at her
    and what she was doing
    the way the eyes of saints are painted
    when they are looking up at God
    when he is doing something remarkable,
    something that identifies him as God.

Languor
    I have come back to the couch—
    hands behind my head,
    legs crossed at the ankles—
    to resume my lifelong study
    of the ceiling and its river-like crack,
    its memory of a water stain,
    the touch of civilization
    in the rounded steps of the molding,
    and the lick of time in the flaking plaster.
    To move would only ruffle
    the calm surface of the morning,
    and disturb shadows of leaves in the windows.
    And to throw open a door
    would startle the fish in the pond,
    maybe frighten a few birds from a hedge.
    Better to stay here,
    to occupy the still room of thought,
    to listen to the dog breathing on the floor,
    better to count my lucky coins,
    or redesign my family coat of arms—
    remove the plow and hive, shoo away the bee.

Obituaries
    These are no pages for the young,
    who are better off in one another’s arms,
    nor for those who just need to know
    about the price of gold,
    or a hurricane that is ripping up the Keys.
    But eventually you may join
    the crowd who turn here first to see
    who has fallen in the night,
    who has left a shape of air walking in their place.
    Here is where the final cards are shown,
    the age, the cause, the plaque of deeds,
    and sometimes an odd scrap of news—
    that she collected sugar bowls,
    that he played solitaire without any clothes.
    And all the survivors huddle at the end
    under the roof of a paragraph
    as if they had sidestepped the flame of death.
    What better way to place a thin black frame
    around the things of the morning—
    the hand-painted cup,
    the hemispheres of a cut orange,
    the slant of sunlight on the table?
    And sometimes a most peculiar pair turns up,
    strange roommates lying there
    side by side upon the page—
    Arthur Godfrey next to Man Ray,
    Ken Kesey by the side of Dale Evans.
    It is enough to bring to mind an ark of death,
    not the couples of the animal kingdom,
    but rather pairs of men and women
    ascending the gangplank two by two,
    surgeon and model,
    balloonist and metalworker,
    an archaeologist and an authority on pain.
    Arm in arm, they get on board
    then join the others leaning on the rails,
    all saved at last from the awful flood of life—
    so many of them every day
    there would have to be many arks,
    an armada to ferry the dead
    over the heavy waters that roll beyond the world,
    and many Noahs too,
    bearded and fiercely browed, vigilant up there at every prow.



Today
    If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
    so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze
    that it made you want to throw
    open all the windows in the house
    and unlatch the door to the canary’s cage,
    indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,
    a day when the cool brick paths
    and the garden bursting with peonies
    seemed so etched in sunlight
    that you felt like taking
    a hammer to the glass paperweight
    on the living room end table,
    releasing the inhabitants
    from their snow-covered cottage
    so they could walk out,
    holding hands and squinting
    into this larger dome of blue and white,
    well, today is just that kind of day.

Ave Atque Vale
    Even though I managed to swerve around the lump
    of groundhog lying on its back on the road,
    he traveled with me for miles,
    a quiet passenger
    who passed the time looking out the window
    enjoying this new view of the woods
    he once hobbled around in,
    sleeping all day and foraging at night,
    rising sometimes to consult the wind with his snout.
    Last night he must have wandered
    onto the road, hoping to slip
    behind the curtain of soft ferns on the other side.
    I see these forms every