The turning of the pages of a magazine in the middle of a morning sends waiting-room echoes through the quiet house, echoes that are making us old. The routines that hold us closer to them and this sense that steady notice is being taken of us somewhere now, this is making us old and the…
We’ll never know for sure now, you in your garage with the motor on and the tailpipe clogged and the door closed, three days before the trial. Your wife found you after she found the note, and this morning the numinous beauty of low fog in our field has taken on a strange gloom, a…
First just a few, then more, then more— this one a gift, this one a pity adoption. They flutter as she passes. They call when she comes home. She strokes them, soothes them. They flap, agitated. She tries to nap, but their cries are constant. They are starving. They will not be placated. She says…
They glowed, the first day after their wedding, like planets in the morning sky, and their movements, no matter the task—packing gifts, choosing deli sandwiches, examining the map—were stately and serene. The second day, in the car, she said she was homesick. For their wedding, of all things. "It went too fast." He lifted a…
(Tyrannus tyrannus) That bird towering: late summer garden: who senses the burring wings deep inside roses and like the angel before all nectar’s sipped before gold scatters in bright air descends from its high height to lift away the bee… not a honey eater: though looking so: bee after bee disappearing into incandescence:: Only the…
His plane was scarcely more than canvas stretched across board. Gunned down by a German Fokker onto no-man’s land, my father crawled under cross-fire to a crater and sprawled in on the dead. Only once did he mention the maggots and stench in a world that slammed up too soon. That night, between the sizzle…
The light in the morning made him happy. It was one of the few things that did now. It arrived discreetly filtered, not to disturb him, then poured in when Pablino came to open the shutters, lighting up the dark corners and bleaching the embroidery on the nineteenth-century bench at the foot of the bed….
after Horace Odes I.11 However candid, wise, courageous, and charming the neurologist, it was surely a mistake for her to say that thirty years might stretch ahead of me living with who I lived with. And yet I had asked her, silly as Leuconoe. Scire nefas! Besides, how could she tell quem mihi finem…
The all volunteer unarmored drop-out meth-head accepting army, be all you can be dead here and slow or swifter in the sand, poor black white chicanas need jobs, who doesn’t like bread with their shrapnel in the morning, I feel a draft coming, a daft numbing of sense, can you dig it, your fox hole…
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