Chicago

I had a little stove and a wick of wakefulness

in my sleep.

In the mornings, I heard the train roar and go up

into the center of things.

I circulated thoughts like,

Crisp, cool lettuce or a starved rabbit: which am I?

I would take long walks and say to no one,

When I was first married …

I saw all of Luis Buñuel’s films inside of a week

and warmed to our comparable debasements.

I wasn’t young, I wasn’t old, I was still nibbling

at what lay before me.

And later, when I didn’t have the energy

to hide myself from the flavors of the changing world,

I planned a few things, too.

Dream of St. Ursula

When I woke up I was in a dream. I was

In my room with the nodding myrtle and carnation

Plants, abiding a vision. All year I had been throwing

Away the daily lunch prepared for me. I was reading

A book about hunting and preparing to love the wilds,

Physical danger. My crown made me feel worldly.

I didn’t yet have grace,

The angel murmurs the word,

Surrender. He holds a quill as if he writes my fate.

My fate! I did not know that God would take

Such inventive pleasure in us, that he would compel

Me into images far beyond my imagination. I was

Reading a book and I was readying to love.

I never dreamt that he would pursue a story’s end

Without undue compassion for its characters.

Poem

No cities, no stars.

Then, begging

on your knees

each night

to make new noises

of those

inexpressible cities, those

uncontrollable stars.