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Our dead will not congregatebut 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 meetin heaven or here at night in my room,they make absolutely clearin the way they don’t open their mouthstheir disdain at my—what is it—it’s my hopethat…

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! Smiles? Tears?           Not for her, not for him;Only for…

Here,the lichens are blue-greenlike copper silicates,and everything is horizontalin the gales that lastfor three days. With this isolationit’s a near-certaintyI can cobble togethera second creaturein my new laboratorybeneath the aurora. I dreamt last nightof an apothecary’s rosewhere the heart was,and when I wokeand saw the sunstrike a white-rising lark I felt such awe and eerinessI…

Nuns have broughtkneaded dough into the chapelwhere it rises without a draught silence brimswith this creature of bread,the smell of yeast against stone while outside,the perfect accidentof 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 throughthe frame: five tiny seeds, five answersto questions my head kept asking.While my parents were at work,I dug dad’s revolver from his sock drawerand carried it around the house.I rubbed the cool barrelon my cheeks, traced itacross my lips like the faggot I wasputting on…

It is the train-off-a-cliff courting,the half-masteyes across a room, fingerslingering too longon the exchange of a book, a cigarette,an apple. Nights of seeing a facein the moon and finallyleaving the window to walk emptydawn streets in searchof a rock or flower to holdin your pocket for luck. The first tasteof the other’s skin, nervous-sweatturning to…

Maybea year can bejust what’s neededtoting its daysas a cloud its nightfresh from the darkA year might throwlight on everythingwho knowsso that all is knownand understoodthat would be niceor a yearmight fail to pleasenot ever wishto pleaseA year involves so muchis it worth trying againthe year won’t saythis week goes bythat week goes bynothing waitsFields…

Some years are lightas airyou don’t even have to lift themfrom your memorythey float their weightless goodiesin and out of your todaywith less fussthan a summer cloud roaming the sky but other yearsare heavy as a suitcase full of a murdered torsoheavier than plutonium or osmiumdarker than ten thousand leagues under the sea—you need the…