GRASS FOR SHEEP
She asks me to cut the grass
and has distant and dark glassy eyes.
She is from Venus, now I know. All I
can think of is Frost and his wall
and why must it be cut
—it's not yet overgrown but an inch—
so with a Keatsian wild surmise
I declare: "Let nature grow."
What I mean is, let it have a go;
it is not yet a bother
and I for one am dying to know
how the dandelions will loom
over the lawn's meek mass
watchtower-stalks of radiant yellow.
A CONVERSATION WITH HISTORY
Maybe you found History
comfortably napping on your couch
and a delicate frown nudged a chord within.
But me, I see him turbaned
charging the walls at Istanbul
his yataghan held high; and
a child, eyes bulging
save a soldier-father
blankly in convoy driven by.
Have your chat with the Queen
or go to the convenience store
for milk and cookies;
I smell the farmer's plow-furled soil
damply sheen and earthen tangy
while in the boundary ditch unseen
— like Icarus in Breughel's vision —
a wife locks jaws and whimper-grunts
bloodily birthing her tenth.
Then with deliberate and tremulous moves
she tears her faded charcoal dress
and bundles the newborn for our walk to town.
was born in Sparti, Greece. He has translated Hemingway into Greek, written
song lyrics and is currently working on a novel. He teaches English in