Peter Marcus

And here's his title poem, to give you a flavor of the book:

Dark Square

We all die dreaming something of this world:

its eggs, dust, feathers,

and its body of bread.

             On moonless nights

the whole house sways

with sleep.

            At dawn, a marlin arcs and wavers

toward the Mexican sun.

Murmuring children pass

through the graveyard gates, carrying little pines.