It is always among sleepers we walk. We walk in their dreams. None of us Knows what he is as he walks In the dream of another. Tell me my name. Your tongue is blurred, honeyed with error. Your sleep's truth murmurs its secret. Tell me your name. Out at the edge, Out in the…
“. . . and another workshop, since my last letter, at the mental hospital. No, they don't pay me. Several good writers, but it's sad (the locks). A man said he'd killed his cousin. A young girl, Sarah, tremulous, with electric hair, said, ‘I was thinking about good and evil, in the cafeteria. All I…
Little chameleon swooning for a tin pot of old water, you remind me of our worst lieutenant generals, balancing on tiptoes, yanked tall and then swollen with greed, curling their thick tongues like hoodwinked nooses down into the blue bowl— the color of tricky sky, of well-traveled ocean glass, the last emptied bottle tossed overboard—…
1. Life Style Invincible begetters, assorted Scruffses have always lived hereabouts in the woods trapping beaver or fox, poaching enough deer to get by on. Winters, they barricade their groundsills with spoiled hay, which can ignite from a careless cigarette or chimney spark. In the Fifties, one family barely got out when the place lit…
My father found himself in Boston once, ten thousand myths away from Oklahoma. I think of him standing on the rim of the Atlantic, the horizon vertical as it describes the Upperworld and the Underworld. It was the water that attracted him, as if he were some kin to the Watermonster, as if he’d heard…
For my son I tried to distinguish between personal fear and principle. Now laughter phlegms deep in my throat because I remember the tenuous mud dam in the marsh, only surface tension holding back the black water, and the sleek beaver gliding with a mouthful of sedge and sapling back to the lodge and her…
At your feet, I am a shoemaker’s apprentice, Toxic in a long day of fumes. I’m listening To the fluorescent light come on In April, an Isadora flinging her hot white scarf Across a month mottled by the chemicals Of Daylight Savings Time, in the spokes of the wheels Of hormones turning in the unseasoned…
Shorebirds occupy a patch of sand near the ocean. Eighteen or twenty godwits work, driving their long frail beaks into sand recently made slate-colored by the falling tide. A dozen turn their backs to the surf and walk inland, striding on legs purposeful and thin. Their abrupt walk integrates motions that seem contrary to us,…
They were in a bar far from home when she realized he was falling to pieces. That's what she'd thought: Why, he's falling to pieces. The place was called Gary's. "Honey," he said. He took the napkin from his lap and dipped it in his gin. He leaned toward her and started wiping her face,…
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