Scribbled in the Dark Read online

  Into bloody chunks on the highway,

  May have already foretold our story.

  Stray hen, is what they call our neighbor,

  The one always looking lost,

  Always clucking about something

  And crossing herself as if she were in church.

  I fear she hears those hounds barking,

  And so does that man I see every night

  In the picture window of his home

  Sitting with a lit candle at a long table.

  THE WHITE CAT

  Mother was beginning to worry about me.

  Moping around, still unmarried,

  Destined to sit in the same gray sweater

  And the same chair for the rest of my life,

  Playing with the same three buttons.

  I bought her a radio to cheer her up.

  Even dance music sounded sad to her.

  The quiet was better, especially on Sundays.

  Together we’d watch the rain fall,

  The night come, weary of being night,

  And having to turn up at the appointed hour

  Wearing the same black garments.

  The buildings across the street were dark

  While the sky had suddenly cleared.

  I thought I heard Mother call my name,

  So I covered my ears with my hands

  And watched a white cat with its tail raised,

  Walking cautiously along the parapet,

  Stop and take a peek in every window.

  THE ONE WHO DISAPPEARED

  Now that it’s warm enough to sit on the porch at night

  Someone happened to remember a neighbor,

  Though it had been more than thirty years

  Since she went for a little walk after dinner

  And never came back to her husband and children.

  No one present could recall much about her,

  Except how she’d smile and grow thoughtful

  All of a sudden and would not say what about,

  When asked, as if she already had a secret,

  Or was heartbroken that she didn’t have one.

  THE MESSAGE

  Take a message, crow, as the day breaks.

  And find the one I hold dear,

  Tell her the trees are almost bare

  And the nights here are dark and cold.

  Learn if she lights the stove already,

  Goes to bed naked or fully dressed,

  Sips hot tea in the morning, watching

  Neighbors’ children wait for a school bus.

  Tell her nothing fills me with more sorrow,

  Than the memory of seeing her

  Covering her face with her hands

  When she thought she was alone.

  Help me, bird, flapping from tree to tree

  And calling in a voice full of distress,

  To some fond companion of yours

  You’d like to see flying by your side.

  BIRDS KNOW

  There’s a pond, a man said,

  Far back in these woods,

  Birds and deer know about

  And slake their thirst there

  In a water so cold and clear,

  It’s like a brand-new mirror

  No one had a chance to look at,

  Save, perhaps, that little boy,

  Who went missing years ago,

  And may’ve drowned in it,

  Or left some trace of himself

  Playing along its rocky edges.

  I better go and find out,

  This very night, I said to myself,

  With my mind running wild,

  And the moon out there so bright.

  III

  THE MOVIE

  My childhood, an old silent movie.

  O, winter evenings

  When Mother led me by the hand

  Into a darkened theater

  Where a film had already started—

  Like someone else’s dream

  Into which we happened to drop in—

  With a young woman writing a letter

  And pausing to wipe her eyes

  In a room looking out on some harbor

  And a bird sitting quietly in her cage,

  No one was paying any attention to,

  Nor to the white ship on the horizon,

  Perhaps drawing closer, perhaps sailing away.

  It was an occupied city, I forgot to say.

  We trudged our way home

  Bundled up heavily against the cold,

  Keeping our eyes to the ground

  Along the treacherous, dimly lit streets.

  BELLADONNA

  A word that comes to mind tonight

  Strolling past red paper lanterns,

  Bead curtains, and Oriental carpets

  In a softly lit window of a fortune-teller.

  A pretty girl in white evening gown

  Seated at a small round table

  Awaiting the arrival of the oracle

  With tears streaking down her face.

  A sight the live parrot on the premises

  May want to comment on from his perch,

  And the devil himself display tonight

  To a young monk kneeling in prayer.

  ON CLOUD NINE

  Most days I’m airborne.

  Nights too.

  One foot before the other

  On a thread so thin

  A spider couldn’t tell it from its own,

  I promenade unseen

  Over your heads.

  You who are always ready

  To applaud a fireman

  Saving a child from a burning building,

  Look up now and then

  And try to catch my act.

  SWEPT AWAY

  Melville had the sea and Poe his nightmares,

  To thrill them and haunt them,

  And you have the faces of strangers,

  Glimpsed once and never again.

  Like that woman whose eye you caught

  On a crowded street in New York

  Who spun around after she went by

  As if she had just seen a ghost.

  Leaving you with a memory of her hand

  Rising to touch her flustered face

  And muffle what might’ve been something

  She was saying as she was swept away.

  MY GODDESS

  Your nose is red, your eyes tear,

  And you have sniffles

  As if you’ve been watching

  Soap operas all afternoon.

  Diane—or whatever you call yourself—

  Unless I can get you a drink

  You may catch a bad cold

  And have to stay in bed for a week.

  Dearest, it’s true you deserve

  Far better than this rotgut

  I found under the kitchen sink.

  Still, go ahead and take a swig,

  And stop pestering me to order

  Chinese food at this hour

  And find you a pair of dark glasses

  You could wear in bed for me.

  THE LUCKY COUPLE

  This warm spring weather made them lazy

  Sitting side by side on a park bench

  With eyes closed and sunlight on their faces,

  Listening to children in the playground

  And some bird chirping in the trees

  Long after they should’ve been back in the office.

  One of them ought to have had the sense

  To peek at their watch and with a shout

  Drag the other away by the arm.

  His excuse is, he’s with a beautiful woman

  Incapable of lifting a finger to save them

  From being both sacked upon their return.

  For now, with their legs stretched out

  And their arms folded, they are content.

  The people hurrying by must think

  How lucky these two must be without

  A care in the world, unlike t
hat bunch

  Looking pissed as they exit the courthouse.

  DEAD SURE

  Lovebirds smooching in the street,

  The end of the world is coming.

  Even that legless veteran

  Asking schoolgirls for some change

  Is going to hell in a hurry,

  Because he keeps using

  The name of our Lord in vain.

  The old man holding the sign

  With a grim look on his face

  Is sure he’ll be the one saved.

  THE LOVER

  When I lived on a farm I wrote love letters

  To chickens pecking in the yard,

  Or I’d sit in the outhouse writing one to a spider

  Mending his web over my head.

  That’s when my wife took off with the mailman.

  The neighbors were leaving, too.

  Their sow and piglets squealing

  As they ran after the moving truck,

  And even that scarecrow I once tied to a tree

  So it would have to listen to me.

  THE SAINT

  The woman I love is a saint

  Who deserves to have

  People falling on their knees

  Before her in the street

  Asking for her blessing.

  Instead, here she is on the floor,

  Hitting a mouse with a shoe

  As tears run down her face.

  THE ART OF HAPPINESS

  Thanks to a stash of theatrical costumes

  And their kindly owner,

  An opportunity for this couple to brighten up

  This dark and dreary day,

  Cut a dash as they step out

  Into the crowded street

  Wearing powdered wigs,

  Cross against the screeching traffic,

  And go have lunch,

  She looking like Marie Antoinette,

  And he all in black,

  Like her executioner or father confessor,

  Watching the young French Queen

  Splashing ketchup over her fries

  With a wicked smile on her face,

  While he struggles to balance the straw

  That came with the Coke

  On his nose and waits for her applause.

  IN SOMEONE’S BACKYARD

  What a pretty sight

  To see two lovers drink wine and kiss,

  A dog on his hind legs

  Begging for table scraps.

  CHERRY PIE

  If it’s true that the devil has his finger

  In every pie, he must be waiting

  For the night to fall, the darkness to

  Thicken in the yard, so we won’t see him

  Lick the finger he dipped in your pie,

  The one you took out of the oven, love,

  And left to cool by the open window.

  A DAY CAME

  The birdcage was gone and the couch

  With your parents on it watching TV.

  Nor did we notice the moving truck,

  The driver waving to us as he drove away.

  I like the new look of our lives, you said,

  Dangling a beer bottle by the neck

  And walking pleased from room to room,

  Every one of which was now empty.

  Stepping out at last to look for our car,

  We found neighbors’ homes trashed,

  Their front lawns covered with weeds

  A few of which had pretty blue flowers

  That seemed pleased to be there,

  As crows do finding a roadkill.

  The interests of certain powerful parties

  In this country were being met.

  Would that include God? I wondered

  While you lay next to me on the floor,

  Dead to the world. Still, you’d expect

  Someone that big to lift a finger.

  HAUNTED HOUSE

  When the evening silence that lingered

  Under a tree listening to a bird,

  Strolls over to the village church

  And then waits on its stone steps

  For the minister to come and let it in—

  But no one’s about, either in the church

  Or in the row of stately homes,

  Each one of them long unoccupied

  And kept in good order by their ghosts,

  Like the one that struck a match,

  When the power went out last night

  And a woman as nature made her

  Could be seen descending the stairs

  Carrying one lit candle and climbing

  Afterwards with a slice of watermelon.

  THE BLIZZARD

  O to be inside a mailbox

  On a snow-piled street corner

  Snuggled against a letter

  Sending love and hot kisses

  To some lucky fellow out there.

  IV

  THE INFINITE

  The infinite yawns and keeps yawning.

  Is it sleepy?

  Does it miss Pythagoras?

  The sails on Columbus’s three ships?

  Does the sound of the surf remind it of itself?

  Does it ever sit over a glass of wine

  and philosophize?

  Does it peek into mirrors at night?

  Does it have a suitcase full of souvenirs

  stashed away somewhere?

  Does it like to lie in a hammock with the wind

  whispering sweet nothings in its ear?

  Does it enter empty churches and light a single

  candle on the altar?

  Does it see us as a couple of fireflies

  playing hide-and-seek in a graveyard?

  Does it find us good to eat?

  LAST BET FOR THE NIGHT

  Wagered one more thought

  Against the universe,

  The one about this moment

  I’m living through

  Being all that’s true,

  With my heart leaping

  To place another red chip

  On this dark night’s

  Vast and unattended gaming table.

  DESCRIPTION

  It was like a teetering house of cards,

  A contortionist strumming a ukulele,

  A gorilla raging in someone’s attic,

  A car graveyard frantic to get back

  On the highway in a tornado,

  Tolstoy’s beard in his mad old age,

  General Custer’s stuffed horse . . .

  What was? I ask myself and have no idea,

  But it’ll come to me one of these days.

  MYSTERY THEATER

  Bald man smoking in bed,

  Naked lightbulb over his head,

  The shadow of his cigar

  Next to him on the wall,

  Its long ash about to fall

  Into a pitch-dark fishbowl.

  SHADOW ON THE WALL

  Round midnight,

  Let’s invite

  A fellow bedlamite

  For a bite.

  LOOKING FOR A PLACE TO HIDE

  I went down the street of false gods

  The street of men dressed to kill

  The street of a rat breaking cover

  The street of moths courting and mating at night

  The street of runaway brides

  The street of the grand hotel on the skids

  The street of painted smiles

  The street of the sorcerer’s apprentice

  The street of smoke and mirrors

  The street of shadow puppets

  The street of bloody wars and revolutions

  The street of the pacing tiger

  The street of a policeman on his horse

  The street of a sleepwalking child

  The street of the illegible address

  SCRIBBLED IN THE DARK

  A shout in the street.

  Someone locking horns with his demon.

  Then, calm returning.


  The wind tousling the leaves.

  The birds in their nests

  Pleased to be rocked back to sleep.

  Night turning cool.

  Streams of blood in the gutter

  Waiting for sunrise.

  IN THE GREEK CHURCH

  The holy icon of the Mother of God

  With moonlight at its feet

  Like a saucer of milk

  Set out for a cat to find

  As it sneaks in at dawn.

  The flames on her candles

  Growing unsteady

  As its steps draw close,

  The saints over the altar

  With their eyes open wide

  Like children seeing a ghost.

  THE MASQUE

  A bit of light from the setting sun,

  Lingered on in your wineglass,

  As you sat on your front steps

  After the last guest had departed,

  Watching the darkness come,

  The first firefly set out tipsily

  Over the lawn carrying a lantern

  Like a player in a masque miming

  Some scene of madness or despair,

  The other players still in hiding,

  The wind and the leaves providing

  The sole musical accompaniment.

  MANY A HOLY MAN

  Took a turn whispering in his ear

  In some quiet hour of the night,

  Telling him how much happier

  He’d be if he were to desire nothing,

  Urging him to stop dwelling

  On the many ups and downs in his life—

  Some of them still fresh in his mind—

  That brought him to this sorry state,

  And make peace with everything

  That can’t be changed,

  Understood, or ever properly resolved—

  Like God and one’s fate,

  And devote his remaining days

  To minding that inner light

  So that it may let him walk without stumbling

  As little by little night overtakes him.