J. M. W. Turner’s “Slavers Throwing Overboard the Dead and Dying, Typhoon Coming On” (1840) How it is That up is known Here, outstretched umber hands Punch through An ocean’s concave mirror from Death’s inverse Universe —But that’s Not in this view That Wasn’t me We say now To the flame-shaped…
Holding bread crust up to my lips, I watch a crow hop past its black feathered anchor into just a bit of atmosphere. My cat lunges into a rhododendron bush, another January mouse pushed out of earth. Disemboweled, its whiskered head will be left behind like a misplaced chess piece or bodiless, a perfect…
In the end, the end seems probable, but before come many votes and murders. The common redstart votes for its own splendor among the other splendid things; the virgin murders her own abashed vocabulary, pretending to a toughness she does not as yet possess. Possess she will, in time, a rude demeanor…
i. There are hands around a small neck. Climb in closer. Without line these your limbs, gills, wrist a small cut on a mid-season day. Now the squirrel arabesques limb to limb dropping not falling. ii. Gated all awake. Eaten all your conflagrated hate. Pulled down toward. Pull down toward. This your cord….
What’s it like now to be shot in the foot by yourself, when you were aiming elsewhere and didn’t want any kind of trouble? How else could you frustrate yourself more, what with your foot oozing blood, and the gun smoke clouding the air so you can’t think, and that bird you wanted…
This is the small hill Landscape of the middle country I love and I am on it stumbling down in high heels This is the last evening No light in the squandered wood The gentleman farmer still awake His back to my back Verdant in blackness is a twinkling Is a wet streamlike thing…
The love rose in my heart has wilted The love bug The news on the transistor A nice man with a ponytail says It’s understandable If you wanted to leave here for there They were burying the evidence Structurally Boys in prison cells And outside the kids play stretcher One of them was dying Between…
By ten o’clock she’s cleaned the house and can measure bourbon into her cup. Who will save her now? No answer. The fetus flips and scoots inside her belly, then sleeps as quiet as the lamb that lies down with the wolf, its sovereign other. Improbably in that tiny Brooklyn apartment, Nina’s baby pulls cells…
Despite the moonlessness a glow still lives in the lighter stones, yonder a great seam of quartz beams stars back at the stars. The nightwalking habit he cannot shake, and shunning headlamp or flashlight he goes slow. He knows the way through the woods well, sometimes waits a spell, took a hard fall once it…
No products in the cart.