It was as if I were trying to climb into its eyes or mouth, the animal that inhabited me, as if I could take myself by surprise and thereby rid myself of the thing that bothered me. My zoo was open. It was supplied with creatures that might be exhibited without an entrance fee or…
I don’t know what to do with beauty, with the curled lip, with the delicate bones and the cocked wrist, with that sudden sense of being hurled into a place I have no right to be, as if to exist on such ground might be forbidden, allowed only a glimpse, then what to do with…
The dog wagged her tail outside the window, as I stared into her one good eye, wondering if she understood why she was banished outside (I didn’t), then I decamped to the yellow kitchen, where red flowers spread out of a vase like the five points of a star (though scruffier), and I read poems…
Our dead will not congregate but come to us, distinctly, as they were: her stooped majesty, his cold dreamy self, that darling girl’s sly smile, which could be why, when I have them meet in heaven or here at night in my room, they make absolutely clear in the way they don’t open their mouths…
for Eugene Dubnov Dead passion, like pain, is only a name, Word never to be made flesh again, Never again desire’s uncontrollable purge of the censoring brain. Nothing left, nothing left but language. Like the four-leaf clover shut fifty years in a dusty book on a shelf. Open the book. Such a dry clover!…
Here, the lichens are blue-green like copper silicates, and everything is horizontal in the gales that last for three days. With this isolation it’s a near-certainty I can cobble together a second creature in my new laboratory beneath the aurora. I dreamt last night of an apothecary’s rose where the heart was, and when I…
Nuns have brought kneaded dough into the chapel where it rises without a draught silence brims with this creature of bread, the smell of yeast against stone while outside, the perfect accident of corn ripening the light.
My death grew along the edge of the yard. I’d crawl into her temple of plummet and root and once inside her heart it was hard to leave. I’d grow drowsy in the odor of her resin. Crushing the berries, I’d smell my fingers: they smelled of calamine and vomit. Through the roof of the…
I knew how to check for bullets: cylinder release, two fingers through the frame: five tiny seeds, five answers to questions my head kept asking. While my parents were at work, I dug dad’s revolver from his sock drawer and carried it around the house. I rubbed the cool barrel on my cheeks, traced it…
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