Something’s falling in increments of banging and slight popping, klunks, and then little chittering rolls, the roof I mean is being hit by objects nuts, fruits of the season: this miserable natural world hurls these things…and then there’re the wolf howls or coyotes as they call them here and the barks and snuffles of so-called…
The Cray Revisitation Lord she’s gone done left me been confiscated / up and split up and I with no laws to make her come back and everywhere the handmade helms are jade bright manifesto white crystal disinfo glistens Batman Gabby Giffords Sandy Hook and Charleston drove Mz Firearms away made her take…
My great-grandparents gave up nickels for a glimpse of two pigs struggling to eat soybeans with the snout they shared. Some vestige of what lured my ancestors out of a Rockwell painting is down there. A hideous marker was erected among the barley sheaves in this blond field because a beautiful landscape isn’t enough, is…
Stooped by bulging backpacks, we plodded along water-logged plywood set atop the flood and mud that dried like whitewash on our pink feet once we’d shed our soaked expensive sandals, and settled in a spot on deck, under the roof, out of the tyrannical equatorial sun. Miles below, the invisible Wallace Line marked where the…
A man hammered a spigot into a barrel. Heat deckled the avenue of plane trees, mottling the bark, making works on paper of the leaves. The heart of the city was like a human heart—it was an ornate box in which I hid. We walked the savage path to the docks. The river wrote its…
Gazing from my little window, Light in August face down on my dinner tray, I see a glowing town beneath me spangling the dusk, a town I’ve probably never heard of, and I think about you, you who are down there leading my life. You’re a large fellow in late middle age, a standard-looking, indistinct…
Imperative: to anchor in the present, stay alive to every now— the currency of beat and breath with which you pay for every stolen step. * Of sound: a mortal music; sick, sweet drop and bounce. * The boys we were becoming something else. How we ripened through the back-and-forth and stretched to test the empty space…
Jagged are names and not our creatures. —Veronica Forrest-Thomson i wish i had a better name to be called by like you might call a dog at a lake and she would surely turn & i could eat your name for days: i would gladly bow my head o as the ploughman to the…
Now it can almost be heard. But not quite Almost. Still on the far side of nearly, It is the melody of a floating feather. A spiderweb fingers my cheek in the dark garden; A briar plucks at my sweater. Wind on a windless night wafts through my hair. Or the aroma of sandalwood soap…
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