By Maya Angelou
Those new poems are robust, targeted and as regularly, packed with lifting rhythms of affection and remembering.
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As crooked as sea- weed. It sways, sways and doesn’t go down. The water levels it. Crystals are mouths of sweethearts. An agave is cut down with a hatchet, too. A stomach, a sweetheart, an artichoke. The neighbor’s hand, clad in plastic, cleaning up dog shit. We’re in front of Barnes & Noble. In front of the pyramids. Across the street you can buy wine, and when going to JFK and changing at Howard Beach you watch whales or sea elephants again (fish that flash) for which the artist drew gold pears, beards that reach to the airborne planes and to the depths of the sea.
Through the king’s mouth we see teeth. He sews lips. The owl moves its head. She’s tired, drowsy, and black. She doesn’t glow in gold like she’d have to. Fiery Chariot The bull’s berry walks on wires. The windowpanes are wounds. They hiss when the jet streams from the silver kettle and a giant flings a discus. It turns its head. The helmet touches the tip. Shifting The Dedications The juice is sore. The stupor endures the bag. When you hurry, you stand up, smith yourself. The vault is still coming.
The clause is pressed into the gums. Hats cover only undisciplined mice, the opposite of what we’d expect. The axis is unavoidable. Is that you, caraway seed? What did we fly over? ” My second thought was that I’d gladly be as systematic as Swedenborg was. Was the frame clear and did I accept it, though all the zones of my body had yet to go through the slot? Immediately after— I saw it in a flash—angels are censorship and fog, merely a field of space that hauls you toward the center. They quickly paled and glued in a lump.