after Elizabeth Bishop She painted interiors mostly, domestic spaces, slightly old-fashioned, simple and practical, places you could make-do comfortably a month or two, an uncle’s cabin with its potbelly stove, a kettle, a spindle chair, flowers like pussy willows branching from a water glass and, strangely,—in the air a mobile—a Calder turning like thought, like…
What I see in one eye and not the other. A moon that slices away at the dark. The past and what’s coming. Unlike the little hunchbacked shrew hopping mindless across the road. Or crickets, eating anything in their path, gardens, grass, each other. We’re different. We anticipate. For the others, it’s the music without…
You oughta burn those blankets outside in a barrel, is what the undertakers of that town told us as they were going, because of how he died, though by then blankets were the least of what we’d handled. …
Sun first appears as a spot on the kitchen wall. Then a branch from the back yard breaks in every inch lit by dew. Despite us, hunched shadows, our dust rises sparkling. Quick! The wet negative dries.
Would you like to take a tour of the park? Recently, they’ve put up the strangest statues. I don’t understand them, but they tell me you don’t have to. I’m curious to see what you think. Do watch the steps. The last one is chipped. We have to cross the lawn, but first we should…
Then, he held me there as if stunned, the figure who had appeared saying this is the edge between what is and what is not. On one side was the forest in all its complex depth and verdancy, on the other side stretched the field, …
I’m tired of silence, its flimsy eloquence, I’m tired of the tawdry quirks of speech (a taste of compromise, a smarmy diligence, a disaffection for what’s not in reach); I’m tired of the exactions of desire, flailing, jockeying to get expressed. I’m tired of sickness, of its cure, tired of restlessness, tired of rest. I’m…
Bone dry river. Red sand where the water once ran. Boulders that were stepping stones. No cattle. The wind is never gentle here, merely patient—the mesas could tell you that. The vast fields of scrub grass where nothing we’ve planted ever takes root. The way the rain floods everything and is gone, is like kindness…
1. Kissinger in black-tie shuffles to the town car idling at the museum complex edge between where the glum Pei pyramid rises and the gardens begin. “Is that—” I say, and “Yes,” says Jim, baby in his arms, me shoving the empty stroller to get home by naptime. Nobody notices, clicking at each other through…
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