She was tired of him.

The words “robbed” and “security” managed to pierce the soothing backbeat that pumped through not just the Lassimo but every hotel like it in New York. There was a mild ripple of interest from the lobby.

Sasha felt herself contract around the object in a single yawn of appetite

she knew that the question had a right answer

Little remained now but the bells

But, being questioned, the mechanician said that the cup was simply used in his founder’s business, and described the purpose — in short, a cup to test the condition of metals in fusion. He added that it had got into the belfry by the merest chance. Again and again they gazed at the domino, as at some suspicious incognito at a Venetian mask. All sorts of vague apprehensions stirred them. They even dreaded lest, when they should descend, the mechanician, though without a flesh-and-blood companion, for all that, would not be left alone.

While his mild associate was speaking, the chief glanced inquiringly from him to the caster, as if anxious to mark how the discrepancy would be accounted for. As the chief stood, his advanced foot was on the scuttle’s curb.

before obscured by the cloudings incident to casting, that beauty in its shyest grace, was now revealed

Stone by stone, month by month, the tower rose. Higher, higher, snaillike in pace, but torch or rocket in its pride.

never lengthening, never lessening

Anders burst our laughing. He covered his mouth with both hands and said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” then snorted helplessly through his fingers and said, ” Capiche – oh, God, capiche,” and at that the man with the pistol raised the pistol and shot Anders right in the head.

“Then get your ugly ass in gear and fill that bag.” “There you go,” Anders said to the woman in front of him. “Justice is done.” “Hey! Bright boy! Did I tell you talk?” “No,” Anders said. “Then shut your trap.” “Did you hear that?” Anders said. “‘Bright boy.’ Right out of ‘The Killers’.” “Please be quiet,” the woman said.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, “[I shall forget you presently]” I shall forget you presently, my dear, So make the most of this, your little day, Your little month, your little half a year, Ere I forget, or die, or move away, And we are done forever; by and by I shall forget you, as I said, but now, If you entreat me with your loveliest lie I will protest you with my favorite vow. I would indeed that love were longer-lived, And vows were not so brittle as they are, But so it is, and nature has contrived To struggle on without a break thus far, Whether or not we find what we are seeking Is idle, biologically speaking.

If you entreat me with your loveliest lie I will protest you with my favorite vow. I would indeed that love were longer-lived

Edna St. Vincent Millay, “[I shall forget you presently]” I shall forget you presently, my dear, So make the most of this, your little day, Your little month, your little half a year, Ere I forget, or die, or move away, And we are done forever; by and by I shall forget you, as I said, but now, If you entreat me with your loveliest lie I will protest you with my favorite vow. I would indeed that love were longer-lived, And vows were not so brittle as they are, But so it is, and nature has contrived To struggle on without a break thus far, Whether or not we find what we are seeking Is idle, biologically speaking.

what is their reward?

Meanwhile the elders breathe a grateful sigh

As at a signal and like an enormous swarm Of monarch butterflies, the young ones head Northward to strict assignments and to bed

heart-shaped shades.

The beach is the hot parade ground where brigades Of suntanned girls disport themselves and thrust Upon one’s notice pelvis, butt, and bust, And whitened noses bridged with heart-shaped shades. The boys are beery, laying plots to score, Exhibiting heroic abs and pecs, The showy animality of sex, Which the girls make weak pretenses to ignore. They are viewed by dry, bird-wristed, blue-rinsed crones With diamond rings and teeth of Klondike gold Mounted on a frail armature of bones; Their hatted husbands, once, perhaps, adored, Now paunchy, rheumatoid, and feeling old, Who joust at chess, assault at shuffleboard. II. As at a signal and like an enormous swarm Of monarch butterflies, the young ones head Northward to strict assignments and to bed Each of them in a rock-star-postered dorm, And steel themselves for mastering Kant’s “Critique” Of impenetrable Reason, Pico’s claims For human dignity, late Henry James, And insubordinate particles of Greek. Meanwhile the elders breathe a grateful sigh; Vanished are rudeness, arrogance, and noise. Yet, a week later, what is their reward? Views of the changeless ocean leave them bored, And it would be ungenerous to deny The girls were pretty and the boys were boys.

butt, and bust,

departing smile

too late

They have eaten me alive.”

They stand a while in flickering light, rehearsing the children’s names and birthdays. “It’s so sweet to hear their chatter, watch them grow and thrive, ” she says to his departing smile. Then, nursing

Gwen Harwood, “In the Park” She sits in the park. Her clothes are out of date. Two children whine and bicker, tug her skirt. A third draws aimless patterns in the dirt Someone she loved once passed by – too late to feign indifference to that casual nod. “How nice” et cetera. “Time holds great surprises.” From his neat head unquestionably rises a small balloon…”but for the grace of God…” They stand a while in flickering light, rehearsing the children’s names and birthdays. “It’s so sweet to hear their chatter, watch them grow and thrive, ” she says to his departing smile. Then, nursing the youngest child, sits staring at her feet. To the wind she says, “They have eaten me alive.”

. As he paces he wonders Who can I kill today. And for a moment the little knot of screams is still. The parrot

I kept waiting for the thud of your crash as I sprinted to catch up, while you grew smaller, more breakable with distance,

wobbled away

The hungry deer walk on the risen loaves of snow. You can follow the broken hearts

The cat at my window watches amazed. So many feathers and no bird! All day the snow sets its table with clean linen, putting its house

its high home where nothing leaves tracks or stains or keeps time. The sky it fell from, pale as oatmeal, bears up like sheep before shearing.

and of its pain, which returns hurts, stings—reproach me now, remind me that I was in those rooms, with my child, with my back turned to her, searching—oh irony!— for beautiful things.

When I was young I studied styles: their use and origin. Which age was known for which ornament: and was always drawn to a lyric speech, a civil tone. But never thought I would have the need, as I do now, for a darker one:

She was gone. Grown

On Sundays, when the rain held off, after lunch or later, I would go with my twelve year old daughter into town, and put down the time at junk sales, antique fairs.

That’s hours, she says, the big hand’s minutes, the quick, seconds

Sun and moon gaze back at him from the glaze of the silver frame,

He doesn’t know what time is, doesn’t know how in no time those numbers will fill his days the way water fills a bath

knowing we have to turn away and enter the dark.

No, this isn’t another metaphor meant to adorn a romantic tale.

Peter Everwine, “Lullaby” Last night, in the dark, something came near and frightened me and left me turning in my bed, listening to the hum of a mosquito—almost the timbre of a human voice—as it came and went.

ock myself in the bathroom, say the thick words softly,

for if I stop trying, I will be deaf when my children need my help

to be smarter than he is.” I´m forty, embarrassed at mispronouncing words, embarrassed at the laughter of my children, the grocer, the mailman. Sometimes I take my English book and lock myself in the bathroom, say the thick words softly

Now my children go to American High Schools. They speak English. At night they sit around

Pat Mora, “Elena” My Spanish isn’t good enough. I remember how I’d smile listening my little ones,

While the white wood trim defines solidity in space. This is his house. He remembers it as his, Remembers the walkway he built between the front room and the garage, the rhododendron he planted in back, the car he used to drive. He remembers himself, A younger man, in a tweed hat, a man who loved Music. There is no time for that now. No time for music, The peculiar screeching of strings, the luxurious Fiddling with emotion.

Thing he must do, now that he is home, is decide who This woman is, this old, white-haired woman Standing here in the doorway, Welcoming him in

his mind rattling

While the white wood trim defines solidity in space. This is his house. He remembers it as his, Remembers the walkway he built between the front room and the garage, the rhododendron he planted in back, the car he used to drive