He rarely finished any piece of writing—

“The urge toward perfection is a disease.”

Whether through genius or incompetence,

His fragments blur together—but into what?

Not quite philosophy or even art,

But the disclosure of some primal secret.

“Love is the final purpose of the world.”

Where are we going? Home, always back home.

“Our life is not a dream but must become one.”

He left philosophy to study mining

And prospered in the work. He wrote at night

Drafting out stories that refused to end.

He died at twenty-eight. Schelling kept watch

Beside the poet’s sickbed, marveling

How joyfully he contemplated death.

Where are we going? Home, always back home.

TITLE INDEX TO MY NEXT BOOK OF POEMS

Against Immortality, 3

Assignation in the Aerodrome, 11

Ballade of Bad Sandwiches, 16

Chief Holidays of Hell, 9

Chimera Sightings, 32

Clowns in the Cancer Clinic, 25

Depression in an Elevator, 13

Dysfunctional Sestina, 20

Envy as an Art Form, 53

Forgetting Veronika, 44

Great Colas of Our Childhood, 6

Harp Repair in Heaven, 8

Leaving Veronika, 43

Life as a Limited Time Offer, 65

Long Walk off a Short Pier, 57

Meeting Veronika, 41

More Fun in Stalingrad, 30

Necronyms Anonymous, 51

Nightmares of the Gynecologist, 54

No Bison in Buffalo, 27

No Secrets in Saskatchawan, 29

Our Longeurs, 4

Pantoum of Intimate Body Tattoos, 17

Phoning Veronika, 45

Postcards from an Off Season Resort, 56

Recyclable Romantics, 64

Sphinx’s Smile, Lion’s Claw, 55

Sturm and Drang in a Thong, 22

Txting Vrnka, 46

Thirty-Six Varieties of Despondency, 18

Urgent Business with a Bee, 67

Vanity Deserves More Attention, 33

Winning Veronika, 47

Wise and Foolish Virginians, 36

Notes on the Poems 69

• V •

STORIES

THE ROOM UPSTAIRS

Come over to the window for a moment—

I want to show you something. Do you see

The one hill without trees? The dust-brown one

Above the highway? That’s how it all looked

When I first came—no watered lawns or trees,

Just open desert, pale green in the winter,

Then brown and empty till the end of fall.

I never look in mirrors anymore,

Or if I do, I just stare at the tie

I’m knotting, and it’s easy to pretend

I haven’t changed. But how can I ignore

The way these hills were cut up into houses?

I always thought the desert would outlive me.

How did I get started on this subject?

I’m really not as morbid as I sound.

We hardly know each other, but I think

You’ll like it here—the college isn’t far,

And this old house, like me, still has its charms.

I chose the site myself and drew the plans—

A modern house, all open glass and stone,

The rooms squared off and cleared of memory.

No wonder Mother hated the idea.

I had to wait until she died to build.

It was her money after all.

No,

I never married, never had the time

Or inclination to. Still, getting older,

One wonders … not so much about a wife—

No mystery there—but about a son.

I always looked for one among my students