Miracle's truck comes down the little avenue, Scott Joplin ragtime strewn behind it like pearls, and, yes, you can feel happy with one piece of your heart. Take what's still given: in a room's rich shadow a woman's breasts swinging lightly as she bends. Early now the pearl of dusk dissolves. Late, you sit weighing the evening news, fast-food miracles, ghostly revolutions, the rest of your heart.
Aurelius & Furius, true comrades, whether Catullus penetrates to where in outermost India booms the eastern ocean's wonderful thunder; whether he stops with Arabs or Hyrcani, Parthian bowmen or nomadic Sagae; or goes to Egypt, which the Nile so richly dyes, overflowing; even if he should scale the lofty Alps, or summon to mind the mightiness of Caesar viewing the Gallic Rhine, the dreadful Britons at the world's far end-- you're both prepared to share in my adventures, and any others which the gods may send me. Back to my girl then, carry her this bitter
|Poet Laureate Fellows Interviews: Jennifer Bartell Boykin||Interviews||Nov 2023|
|Postcard (October 25, 1985)||Archival Images||Nov 2023|
|Photo of James Tate by Edward Bissell (Courtesy of the Estate of James Tate)||Archival Images||Nov 2023|
|James Tate on Poetry Readings and Travel||Archival Images||Nov 2023|
|Photo of James Tate (Courtesy of the Estate of James Tate)||Archival Images||Nov 2023|