Eric Hoffman


Lustres: 77 poems

winter morning—
bare feet on cold wood

/

for breakfast pickles and rice
and the chill morning air

/

cold wind—
somehow the neighbor comes and goes

/

anniversary of the day he died—
wide bridge over a sullen river

/

wet branches float
on an icy river

/

my heart leaps to see a bird,
there are so few

/

fragile old bridge
astride a raging river

/

muddy shoes—
we have passed from here

/

empty shoes
retain my shape

/

clothes dry on a line above a hot fire—
I rub my sore legs

/

wood gathering in morning mist—
the family sleeps

/

in thick fog
a bell tolls

/

automobiles pass—
bird-song half-heard

/

a murmuration of starlings breaks
the sky’s silence

/

a broad hat
awaits rain and sun

/

evening alone—
voices in the distance

/

sunlight—
water beads on clear green glass glisten

/

red blossoms
muted by gray mist

/

a deep well—
pure water

/

a white page—
shapes drawn listlessly

/

I buy more books than I have time to read—
the definition of hope

/

unread newspaper—
morning argument

/

empty hallway—
the argument lingers

/

everywhere people go mad,
and yet—

/

even the child’s yawn
plays and plays

/

child asleep beside me—
I read in dim light

/

trying again to make sense
of last night’s dream

/

darkness pierced by brief light—
fireflies

/

washing up—
sore hands dipped in hot water

/

even the moon reflects
in the oily saucepan

/

the woman with slumped shoulders
conceals her ample breasts

/

child in her mother’s arms
frightened by their weakness

/

bedsprings sag under a stranger’s weight—
one hundred coins in a cup on the nightstand

/

tangerine sky—
the radio plays Tropicalia

/

pebble—
bright object

/

beams of light
crowd the soundless eye

/

myriad constellations turn
above the sickbed

/

a cricket climbs a blade of glass—
starry field

/

eye beams touch the object seen—
dry wax on wood

/

legs ache from a long walk—
moss on stone

/

cries of children in the distance—
the lawn needs cutting

/

small attic window—
thunderheads gather

/

sudden downpour—
the children race outside

/

summer sun—
motorcycle kicks up dust

/

concrete sidewalk—
locusts in trees

/

wet grass clippings cling to bare feet—
summer moon

/

windows open on a warm summer night—
crickets sing to no one listening

/

warm night—
fireflies wander and blaze

/

copper-colored sun
in yellow fog

/

shag carpet on the stairs—
all that remains

/


old tome smells of smoke—
bamboo bookmark

/

old bathrobe—
wood smoke

/

bow drawn—
to breathe with

/

blood wells in fresh cut—
the true dark life

/

haze of a late summer afternoon—
where has the year gone?

/

fresh picked onion—
so bitter, so sweet

/

apples fall—
a fat crow caws

/

at the cry of the cock-crow
a thousand ghosts vanish

/

clouds pass—
a stone sits silent

/

wind in trees—
the moon a quiet neighbor

/

at night
the fruit cools

/

a cup of tea
cools

/

oak leaf drifts on wind
and I am here to see it

/

snowy slope—
footholds fallen leaves

/

electric heater’s orange glow—
snow falls

/

snow blue light—
a skeletal wind

/

branches creak in a faint wind—
I ponder my many regrets

/

wool sweater itches skin—
the phone doesn’t ring

/

winter—
even ducks grieve

/

parent’s grave—
the mechanics of time and place

/

warm January morning—
wind from an angry world

/

stars wander the heavens in crystalline equilibrium –
winter

/

winter morning—
frozen inkwell

/

winter morning—
brittle quill cracks in frozen fingertips

/

where is the sparrow’s ghost?
where is the sparrow’s ghost?

/

renounce, even words—
still the heart wet with blood

/

the weight
of sleep




Eric Hoffman is the author of Oppen: A Narrative, a biography of George Oppen, published by Spuyten Duyvil in 2019, and of many books of poems. He is also the editor of Conversations with John Berryman, forthcoming from the University Press of Mississippi.
 
 
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