I sing a song of the croissant and of the wily French who trick themselves daily back to the world

1. THE SACRIFICE On this tile the knife like a sickle-moon hangs in the painted air

When our cars touched When you lifted the hood of mine To see the intimate workings under… When we were bound together By a pulse of pure energy,

After Adam Zagajewski I am child to no one, mother to a… wife for the long haul. On fall days I am happy with my dying brethren, the leaves…

It was early May, I think a moment of lilac or dogwood when so many promises are made it hardly matters if a few are bro… My mother and father still hovered

We think of hidden in a white dres… among the folded linens and sachet… of well-kept cupboards, or just ou… sending jellies and notes with no… to all the wondering Amherst neigh…

For Jews, the Cossacks are always… Therefore I think the sun spot on… is melanoma. Therefore I celebrat… New Year’s Eve by counting my annual dead.

When I taught you at eight to ride a bicycle, loping along beside you as you wobbled away

I have banked the fires of my body into a small but steady blaze here in the kitchen where the dough has a life of its…

Into the gravity of my life, the serious ceremonies of polish and paper and pen, has come this manic animal

The gathering family throws shadows around us, it is the late afternoon Of the family. There is still enough light

The door of winter is frozen shut, and like the bodies of long extinct animals, cars lie abandoned wherever

We invent our gods the way the Greeks did, in our own image’€”but magnified. Athena, the very mother of wisdom, squabbled with Poseidon