Bruce Bond – Lute

Lute This lamb, that marble child, whatever you             desire, the stonecutter will take your order. He will make you something to remember,             said my mother, and then she disappeared. Swallow the small things, she would say,             but everything is small tonight, every star on the hood of the curtained limousine.             If I could deepen the […]

Bruce Bond – Lunette 4

Lunette 4 Even the dead feel incomplete and drift        through the garden floor like a feeling of displacement or the scent of rain.        You know that smell, the way a body knows to end the dream and drink. It knows itself        as mostly water and therefore passing through. The breath of millions polishes the wall […]

Bruce Bond’s patmos, Reviewed by David E. Poston

Bruce Bond patmos University of Massachusetts Press Reviewer: David E. Poston Section III of patmos, Bruce Bond’s new book-length poetic sequence, begins: I was just another creature crawling from the mausoleum, and I thought, so this is it, the place in the final chapter where I’m judged for my cruelties, blunders, failures of attention, and […]

Bruce Bond – Cathedral

Cathedral For three days a woman paints her mother in the chill of the funeral parlor, the doll of the mother’s body open-jawed in the long astonishment that overcomes the dying. God is in the small stroke, she says, the unction of the oil, the aromatic solvent that taints the air. She lays the death-mask […]

Bruce Bond – Coyote

Coyote         Elegy for W.S. Merwin I knew a man who cut his chest each night         to let the animal scamper out, alone, and sniff the corners of the dark,         until it had no corner, no harbor, no name, only an aurora of smoke         about the creature whose breath shadowed the emptiness, so long as the […]