THE WAY YOU TALK ABOUT BERLIN
in circles, in nonsquiturs, in sudden
there are no bears in the forests of Berlin. There
The music comes from the forests of Berlin; all the music
to be played on the stereo. This bell rings
You brought me a bear's tooth, an atavistic relic
in Berlin. You said you caught the last one, his
a weighty death, dirty and unknowing of his fate.
I've been writing sonnets with my right hand for over ten years now—the most recent books are largely collections of sonnets and narrative or elegiac sonnet sequences—while the left hand sneaks in prose poems, brief fictions, or narrative poems, mostly about recent wars and their victims. The sonnet is a game whose rules preoccupy the thinking mind—tinkering with phrase, line-break, rhyme, compression, the syllabic limits—while the real work goes on in a reverie that counts on surprises or rather unanticipated discoveries. These two sonnets come from a current impulse to reframe what and where heaven is, how it operates, while knowing I don't really want to create a fixed cosmology to replace the shabby older ones.