The world is not limited to literature. I was sitting in the Adirondack chair when it floated by. Mother and Father were on the other side of the lot building a wall out of small pleasantly shaped rocks. I came to them and said, “It’s in front of us,” the sun burning like an absence….
Benny’s handsome, red brown like rust on a hoe. Empty headed cows loll in the pasture ignoring the mule’s bray. Light shines as easily through a cicada’s husk clinging to a tree as through a bottle of liniment or a glass of tea on the dinner table. The hems of his overalls fray and tickle…
don’t leave the tent delirious and starving in the blizzard makes more sense in hindsight through the howls of distant seals the ruined captain wanders off arctic exploration is no fun makes more sense in hindsight also don’t sleep with her or don’t take the red ones or don’t let the bees escape I took…
Into the clearing of . . . she climbed and stood up from the black boots of her blackouts into her body. The coat wept upon her shoulder, it hung upon her, a carcass heavy on a hook, and in the sockets of the buttonholes the buttons lolled and looked. As she climbed into that…
A large steel knife hovers above Main Street. All night it goes house to house, poking its glowing eye through each roof in its turn. It looks in on the accountant, sleeping fingers tabulating debt on a quilt. The chief of police is safely asleep with his secretary. It was never about love. Grandmother’s in…
The best boys were called: to buck hay till age seventy-five, to castrate a steer & rescue a breach-birth calf under a dusty light bulb, father eight or ten daughters & whip sense into their heads (their character would be their dowry), & one smoking bull of a son, inhale a cyclone …
I found my way back by grief scent and smoke to the daughter’s voice from the father’s mouth. This time you asked that I step outside my body though not far enough to fall into the abyss of night or near the flames that ringed the bed. I couldn’t say, “Go away” because the dead…
What ghost threw my hand across my face? He roamed my sleep in that room dark under pines. Another cried softly for an hour, till comforted. Lakes, mansion, woods, studios— all of it loss and the love of art. Mornings I’d stare at an old story: the touring car draped in a tarp,…
Since you ask: In the walls Of my country lie buried Patrons of the arts; In the floors are prisoners Who stole bread. The sky So close—or I am tall— I have to duck. My wide Cravats flutter In my face. I’m sorry, This is a love letter With a touch of a limp. I…
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