Frederick Seidel’s atest book of poems is Widening Income Inequality. (October 2016)

IN THE REVIEW

Trump

I look past the big face of my computer At what was once New York Outside my window And now is a plateau Of smiling bra-less Breasts of the contestants. It’s time to wake From this cryogenic sleep In which I’ve been …

Envoi

In memory of Jeanette Bonnier (1934–2016) Someone dear to me Rises from her hospice bed, Removes her body and her hair, Starts walking through the air transparently, Starts walking through the air going somewhere. Then I woke. Birds singing ask if I believe in God. The buds are …

Near the New Whitney

In the Meatpacking District, Not far from the new Whitney, In a charming restaurant, I showed how charming I can be. I showed how blue my eyes can be. I showed I can be Dante first catching sight of Beatrice. The maître …

Me

The fellow talking to himself is me, Though I don’t know it. That’s to say, I see Him every morning shave and comb his hair And then lose track of him until he starts to care, Inflating sex dolls out of thin air In front …

Epithalamion for Stein and Stein

Two hummingbirds visit the privet, Flickering your eyes, drumming your heart, Here and gone before you blink. You walk airborne toward the start. Fifteen minutes’ drive to the beach and ocean, Ten to Long Beach and the bay. Jimmy the dog is …

Remembering Elaine’s

We drank our faces off until the sun arrived, Night after night, and most of us survived To waft outside to sunrise on Second Avenue, And felt a kind of Wordsworth wonderment—the morning new, The sidewalk fresh as morning dew—and us new, too.

France Now

I slide my swastika into your lubricious Place Clichy. I like my women horizontal and when they stand up vicious and Vichy. I want to jackboot rhythmically down your Champs-Élysées With my behind behind me taking selfies of the Grand Palais. Look at my arm raised …

The Bird on the Crocodile’s Back

The man can’t stay awake. He falls asleep. It’s noon, it’s afternoon, repeatedly he falls in deep, Seated at his desk or in an armchair, as if to try to write a poem meant A flash flood of sleep and drowning on Parnassus in his tent, …