Hanoch, Pallu, Hezron, Carmi, Jemuel, Ohad, Zohar, Shuni: one Genesis mention’s all you got. Ziphion, Muppim, Arodi: lost in a list even the most devout skip over like small towns on the road to L.A. How tall were you, Shillim? What was your favorite color, Ard? Did you love your wife, Iob? Not even her…
The light that woke the mayor made him think of town. It was a pale pink light ticked out by a palpitating bulb that droned above the empty road he lived on. He sat upright in bed, noticed his posture, how his jutting head sought equilibrium and not much else. God was far off. And,…
Having awakened again at 4 a.m. inside the skull-dungeon in which my brain’s chained like a nasty old man muttering, nattering, keeping me from sleeping with the usual complaints about the accommodations, I focused as usual on my breathing, asked blessings on every living human being by name, alphabetically, one at a time, except of…
Rodney shifted the heavy wooden console a few inches each night, hoping the hotel manager wouldn’t notice the newly revealed depression in the commercial-grade carpet. By the end of the week he could comfortably stand at the far left-hand side of the desk-actually a long laminated counter-and see the entire picture without distortion. He stood…
The sun came to in late December. Spring seemed just the thing that flattered into bloom the murdered shrubs along the splintered fence. The awnings sagged with puddles. Roads were streams. Wet leaves in sheets streaked everything with rust. The man who raked his lawn transferred a toad too small to be a toad back…
Custome is the most certain Mistresse of language, as the publicke stampe makes current money. But we must not be too frequent with the mint, every day coyning. —Ben Jonson Into my pocket slips a folded note, creased like labia, cached with private promise. Pea blossoms in broth. And my in petto pleasure in thinking…
Thomas Lux is always getting ready to leave for somewhere else: for the highway to his home in Waltham, Massachusetts, where he spends part of each week with his eleven-year-old daughter, Claudia; to his classes at Sarah Lawrence College, “each week a honk for Wallace Stevens” when passing through Hartford; to a writing residency at…
—a translation of Dante Alighieri’s Purgatorio, Canto XVII Remember, reader, if ever high in the mountains the fog caught you, so you could see only as moles do, looking through their skin how when the humid, dense vapors begin to grow thinner the sphere of the sun finds its way feebly…
When I was younger I loved until I disappeared. I rested my head in my hand and saw only the beloved: his unruly words, the chocolate of his eyes, each hair on his head a vine from the soul. If we were sitting at a table— the other people around us, the table itself, the…
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