The lonely, young, blond woman in a big gray coat sits by one, small, open window all morning. The lonely, young, gray-coated woman can stay there all day. The coat cannot be gray before big. The window must be small before it is open. If the woman is lonely, she is usually…
The neighbor’s pit-bull, who seemed determined to sniff out the origin of the sky, disappeared months ago. What luxury. I dreamt of him last night. This time, in a field of blue delphiniums, he stepped toward me before vanishing as one vanishes when you knew them well a long time ago. On…
Just for once, I want to witness the going away. I want to catch the moment, cup it in my hands, and see it blink and glow. But in this dream, the Valley Line shrieks from Grand Central hours before I arrive. Or I reach Port Canaveral after the Boatswain’s final call. I’m alone on…
What we have made is flyover country. Gulch of drip-coffee pleasance, my beige blanket’s deafening softness keeping the edges blurred. No glint. Viewed from above the fields stitch together. Belief in the human quilt. Belief in turning away from the needle’s sharp point, belief that the gauntlet valleyed by rage and time…
Can I leave now? is all a teenage client monotones again and again in our first session together. I can only help if you talk to me is what I’m supposed to say to him. Last night I played solitaire and didn’t cheat, stacked my red cards, stacked my black, as…
Young, therefore vain & wingless, he lets his father tie a blue thread around his chest. It is before the famous tragedy, the fall. Before the imminent sea. The coast still composed in subdued hues & regimented patterns. The abstraction of waves has yet to be mutilated by a scream. Human position yet to be…
The cattle dog sniffs around for something to chew & I get it, I do, the small snuffbox, the paper matches sulfuring inside my belly, reaching out for whatever wet thing will not burn nevertheless must burn. One morning, buds on the branches as bloodlings & another morning green, verdant fucking green swooshing in the…
The Japanese maple has left her red-handed prints all over town— guilty of fall and of falling. Even Eve in her fig leaves was not arrayed as one of these— as fallen woman, lady in red with each painted finger as pointed as a scarlet letter A. Everyone’s always looking for the luminous,…
we held a slave auction in class today— probably not a state-sanctioned component of AP U.S. History. but Mr. S made a block out of the front-row desks, cordoned it off with backward-facing chairs. he shame-forced Tony Miller above us and introduced him as “item #5.” he’d prepared a catalog: a one-sided sepia sheet with…
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