To finally locate you after all these years and then— it’s in a dream!: you’re near the end in a hospital in a small New England city, what monstrous snake of a road led you here, where you sit on the bed making calls as you did, to the rich and famous, trying to raise…
to my great-grandmother and her only daughter, Jewell In times of survival, there are no decisions great or small—as a girl, my grandmother killed a copperhead with a broomstick, beating its pitted skull until her father’s dirt-damp floor shined bright as a penny. There was no money. The traps went empty. Listen: my…
There appears suddenly, out of nowhere, a blemish in the mirror on a piece of sentimental furniture, a bubble in the bevel of the scalloped border. Where are you now, my father, fifty-four years gone, whose adolescent face once looked back at itself from this mirror? (Father it wasn’t given me to know. Father…
mistranslation after “Fellah” by Taha Muhammad Ali You: Beethoven I mean to say: Mr. Beethoven I don’t get it: I spend the day removing obstacles, Me and all my neighbors, we’ve covered all the bases But behind our backs, on the phone, the sun still going up and down There are those who hurt…
“True singing is a different breath.” from Rilke’s Sonnets to Orpheus I lift the dark blotter to the world and walk under. There is a coolness here I wouldn’t have expected to be such relief. Everything is at stake. A mirage of my life as I want it to be, whole and breathing, fills…
"To be taken in everywhere is to see the inside of everything. It is the hospitality of circumstance." —G. K. Chesterton Before the Flood, before the Hurricane, before the Twin Towers crumpled to dust and the glaciers thawed and the world picked up its heretofore plodding pace toward Doom…before BlackBerries, before iPods, before that…
the green road is long and deep into the mountain eventually it meets the blue sea you are the feet that deep independently I wish I could show you the way I the rich blue bells and ringing the glass stretched out with your father, the sea but the green road longs for you independent…
giving over my mode au naturel pure or polluted as I await the unveiling of night’s recycled poetry which resembles our backstory softly rendered contrary for my part so as to make, to mourn to point nude abidance toward freewheeling echo flux that said, we recognize some lucid continuum innermost thoughts taming a restless amnesia…
The fly knows when I give up waiting for him to land and go back to my book. Then when I am in the middle of a stanza or line he returns, and just before I am again aware of his air-brake touch, he has bitten me; I am jerked from the poem and the…
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