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O faint sad noises
and milky dullness,
rose-colored blindness
in evening gowns
how moist and rhythmic
those who walk near
the glassy harbor.
Silent drift of deserters
from the theater,
and everywhere the stars
receding, receding . . .
nothing to hold onto
but their own silver hearts.
“The Glassy Harbor,” from Viper Jazz, published by Wesleyan University Press, 1976. Copyright © 1976 by James Tate. Reprinted with permission
I was in a dreamstate and this was causing a problem
with the traffic. I felt lonely, like I’d missed the boat,
or I’d found the boat and it was deserted. In the middle
of the road a child’s shoe glistened. I walked around it.
It woke me up a little. The child had disappeared. Some
mysteries are better left alone. Others are dreary, distasteful,
I answered the ad in the paper. I had been unemployed for
nine months and was desperate. At the interview, the man said,
“Do you have much experience climbing tall mountains?” “Absolutely.
I climb them all the time. If I see a tall mountain, I have to
climb it immediately,” I said. “What about swimming long distances
Some people go their whole lives
without ever writing a single poem.
Extraordinary people who don’t hesitate
to cut somebody’s heart or skull open.
They go to baseball games with the greatest of ease
and play a few rounds of golf as if it were nothing.
These same people stroll into a church