A Country Doctor

A gravely ill man was waiting for me in a village ten miles distant.

A Few Delicate Needles

It’s so delicate, the light. And there’s so little of it. The dark is huge.

A New Year’s Gift

He ended every year in this manner, writing and dreaming.

A Taste for Winter

She is very rich. She will leave me everything when she dies, he says.

A Winter Walk

After breakfast I set out to see what my wild neighbors have been up to.


When he was a child, my father had a cousin who was buried by a plow.

Addendum and Other Poems

The animals are dying. All the beautiful women are dying too.

All-American Biography

Snows piling in his crying mouth. Cold gave him a light complexion.

Bruegel-Hunters in the Snow and Other Poems

I fell asleep wondering to whom the tree might have been writing.

Certain Friends for Certain Secrets

It was like a scene in a movie; it didn’t seem real. The man kicked her.


People only see that side of him. He is still a boy, learning to be a man.

Colorado Road Trip

Eszter Marosszeky and David Matheson

December 24, 1971

Floods of faces, no sign of a pathway toward Bethlehem, shut off by blizzard.

December Morning

Frail as a breath, it broke at once, leaving a tiny kiss in my fingers.

December Was Inconsolable and It Hadn’t Even Arrived Yet

It’s been months since the cat died and still we find her hair.

Dublin Christmas

The streets were filled with couples and families on their way home.


They say it is the soul that rises, not the body. But the body does rise—


The light, returning, nudged me from sleep, and walked me to dinner.

Food for the Common Cold

“I wonder what will stay longer,” Frick said. “Me or that headstone.”

For the Love of the Game

Grass grows, birds fly, waves pound the sand. I beat people up.

From The Victor Poems

It was only a matter of time before the damp of loss grew within us like moss.

From “The Last Will and Testament of the Orphelines”

Our cocoa is gone and our dreams are being eaten by mice.


Gerard sat in the shadow, watching his son steal about like a thief.

Ghazals for the Body

What I want is a woman who knows all the meanings of indulgence.

Heavy Lifting

His chest was sweaty and his T-shirt stuck to it, bleeding black.

How the Winters Once Were

That cold green streak morning had nothing in common with us.


Somewhere along the way her husband had gotten scared.

Ice Fishing

I’m just wired hard for hunting, and not so much at all for fishing.

In the Kitchen

The child writes, Child, and is amazed at this word on the page.

It Is Pretty Cold

Whitman may just mean: it is pretty cold, but there’s always colder.