Category Archives: Poetry

A monument to movies’ gilded mage Stands in a vaunted, vaulted sepulcher. The sculpture—like the critic, just as sage— Has chiseled (as Scott’s learnèd pen) assured.

This is the house that Jack built At the end of a long drive It stands apart from its neighbors At home with its solitude And its singularity

Once upon a time Artur Rubenstein sat before a Steinway Or a debauched Bechstein

sleeping on the ground is more relaxing—and safe— when the ground sleeps, too

I can see it all very clearly