Her studious efforts to construct and maintain partitions as between varieties of touch, which appeared as the blur between affection and sexuality, were rigorous in proportion to the real absence of boundaries designated by these terms. While the contrast was not sharp, it was still painful. Like trying to pry physiology apart from feeling: once…
(Her Anniversary Page Opera—Continues) The curtain shivers on stage boards—dirty gas on the bare back dust under cover of horse, cloth—darkness to the bristles—broom for a rug over a century (late of sawdust coal ash all stagehands on deck) all rugs from the wings (hand to handing off) rugs unrolling another’s land another lands—a splash…
26. it cannot be got around because it is around, this possibility to be what we are what we were in the beginning with light etched in it . . . on the footpath promising passion, the tracery of its moments of summation like perfect timing. for as the former is bodiless become entrails in…
Up or down it, disguise and discretion go both ways. Indifferent to tone, peeling paint adds cachet: patina proudly worn as uniform. Varnish sweats like skin in the stair. Concierge behind lace curtains waits for deliverance. Who cares if care has stained her age? Even spring is autumnal: pallor of sun and leaf on café…
The time of us on earth is spent lightly on good peas and gravy good enough for a second time in an hour -poem by Jon, when he was eighteen years old, as remembered by my mother Chapter (Dear) Dear Dad Dear Father Dear Jon Dear Pop, (This letter is now a part of the…
“I am not easy, but I am worth knowing,” C. D. Wright says of herself, and her friends would agree. Petite and graceful and usually soft-spoken, C. D. Wright’s outward demeanor at once reveals and belies her wholly original personality, which is graceful but large, considerate but unconventional: “I am pretty neat, but there’s considerable…
Rain (as it will). And it is dusk. And you with song upon slim voice. There is need: A reminiscence. (Partaken.) Baptized Presbyterian. We remember the names. The names. Their passing. Were days or something close. Closed. Coiled in our attic bed. To wrap ourselves (us even) as it would be. (There was singing. a…
Gloria in your opera gloves Among these ruins see not the glory that was but that it is. Hollowed of purpose behold Light falling withstand Its song hums you & leads to leas of morning.
Night’s glass towers, Rapunzel’d by the sun, still stand at attention when the work’s all done like dragon dogs guarding the Mahayana heavens, or sentries at the outpost, leaning, nodding. Solariums of labor, they’re useless to the moon, pitched punctuation without any words. Harbors of security to paper-clipping functions now rest in darkness as mute…
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