“I thought a bench was a simple possibility: one could sit on it.” —Rosmarie Waldrop I took a picture of the bench from behind because I wanted to show the vantage rather than what was seen from it—in this case, a stand of trees angling outward, away from the bench, over the river. Although I…
Never a question of staying, the end never named. His words move my hand, he speaks then listens, the lid pried free, the brood-hum now open to the sky. They have a very nice sense of proportion & the space required for the movement of bodies. My ruler measures the gap, I count each worker…
Beautiful cars Slant away in the dusk You can drive through Honeymoon orchards Where time is one foot above the ground With kiss Or pause for night’s cold career To be alone The crickets Do not think with me of your daughter There She bathes and I sulk In the dirty water left behind Since…
translated from the Greek by Stratis Haviaras & Dana Bonstrom Now that all is moot, finished, yes: a handful of Londoners, yourself included, can haunt the world again from the safety of your clubs. Just who do you think you are? Wagering other people’s money on matters of such revolting precision Imaginative in your benevolence…
The setting is a sleepaway camp nestled at the foot of the Green Mountains in Vermont. The camp’s entrance is flanked by twin totem poles stenciled up and down with crudely carved letters that spell the name of the place: indian acres. Drive through the gate, and trails fork out to archery ranges, a dining…
my ears go underwater as i speak, just one, & then another wood floors surround w/ boxes & sound, systems of voices & trajectories the mouth of the river & the left coast, montreal to twelve months of vancouver imagine, i said, doing everything it is you do, except in the shower even thunderstorms erupt…
if this is insecurity, call it, then, the nature of arrogance if you stare at any photograph long enough, it will begin to flutter, & eyes inside will nearly wink there are only two ways of reading this, & i have already forgotten the second one every time i ride a bus from one city…
The map’s measurements mimic . nothing in the world The field’s new furrows . follow the wandering gulch Sometimes sentences and lines . need to be the same Daughters suffocate . beneath their fallen fathers Anything you can explain . I don’t need to hear . Unpredictably angled . strings crisscross a grid The three…
* We must retract our offerings, burnt as they are. We must recall our lines of verse like faulty tires. We must flay the curatoriat, invest our sackcloth, and enter the academy single file. Poetry has yet to emerge. The image is no substitute. The image is an anecdote in the mouth of a stillborn….
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