Maybe what a river loves most about the banks that hold it—that appear to hold it— is their willingness or resignation to being mere context for the river’s progress or retreat, depending. And maybe how the cattails and reeds flourish there means they prefer a river-love—how the river, running always away the way rivers…
It’s like a habit with you— your idea of tenderness— leading the blameless a little more blame-ward just so you yourself can feel a bit less lonely: in what world is that tenderness? And though I disagreed with him, I made no argument, because really why were we talking about any of this or,…
Late autumn in the orange-bronze ranges And the sky still wet with slaughter, the vote Done, dying goldenrod tuning the meadows Beige under flocks of birds that flex the air Into one black v after another, Carrying with them the occasional Silence that flight coaxes from the chest, throat, And mind, coaxes from altitude’s blue…
Book I Of a first disobedience, and the fruit Of that tree, whose mortal taste brought death Into the world, and all our woe. Sing Muse, How heaven and earth rose out of chaos; Aid my adventurous song that intends To soar while it pursues things attempted In prose and rhyme. Instruct me from…
All night, the wildfires burn in Paradise. You’ve been in Texas for a week comforting your mother. Ashes swarm our porchlight in a warm wind. How long will you be gone? I ask. You say that you’re not sure: It’s hard. Her new apartment’s strewn with boxes— and she won’t…
Look, netted in shadows of dying elms, we study our sandwiches like manuals, unscrew thermos warheads, doze, hat brims down, while one cups a joint as if it were a hatchling, offering the cinder, its smoke a rope flung to where I toil astride this trough of what I never want to set,…
And yet, off alone, we were happy with what stayed the same, and we stood there in the space between world and plaything, upon a spot which, from the beginning had been established for pure event. —Rainer Maria Rilke, from “The Fourth Elegy” Translated by Edward Snow Beneath the highway, the stream was…
Lake-deep black of night and no song we sing will do. After pillow forts, Minotaur lullabies, glow-in-the-dark starfighters, shadow animals’ chomp and gallop, wing- flap and pearl—between flood tide and lightning bloom, our son keeps awake and smiles, rhymes storm with remember, bird with brother with Earth. I kiss the rise…
Because Ariel speaks of a king’s son, his boats aflame, crying Hell is empty, and all the devils are here, I ask my son to tell me about love. He chalks crowns and rockets across newsprint, draws wolves, rain clouds, an owlet, says You love me—and my mama. I love triceratops. We try these…
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