To the north there are dog races in the snow, To the south illegal cockfights, But the birds kept openly and noisily. Suppose at the beach we see water jostled, A riptide, but also a normal wave at its own top Suggesting a benign white hole in time Where, in this white hole, fate doesn't…
The spine is a sea horse swimming in the body. The spine is inside-hair gone stiff. The spine leaks ideas the way cardboard leaks water. Submerged saw. Feller of forests. Felled by forests. The spine is innocent. The body is guilty. The spine is to the brain what the embrace is to the lover. Just…
To want is to rub out death. To smack its white skin with a stamp and then stare at the eggs. Spin a vase around, let it hiss like a top, and dismember hymns. Nature contains several planes, one of which walks balanced on edge, munching milk. To want is to collapse into ocean galleys….
"Pity the poor man," I hear them say, over steaming platters of red beans and rice and leaning against dreary gray storefronts. "He had the whole world in his shirt pocket." I hear them and I cry. It's Lester Banks they speak of Slim, malleably built, brown swells about his eyes that darken with his…
The Master took what he could— In one season a black dress— The pupil aimed for the whole thing— Remember Charades?—got the whole thing quickly today, Got it yesterday, would get some more tomorrow. They lived and worked at the bottom of a mountain —Bears ate voraciously in said mountains— Raccoons came down to the…
the underside of one wrist says to the other, peeled green and white what swims across the bridge is tiny tinier than diamonds slick as a gleam of wet new eggs traveling along a stick flesh crackles to confess what lies within body unsheathed open the fingertips are on fire cool as rivers the desolate…
Here's how I know God: the taste of a ripe pear or that silken explosion of the air that sinks in, spewing empty blueness. Head and hair are washed clean instantly. I'm afraid that—let's say, your eyes—will melt onto my hands, exude a fragrance toward the sky or thunder to the netherworld like the falls…
Dolores meets the African boy in a tourist restaurant called The Yoghurt Inn. She is sipping a cold lemon juice, despite her vow to avoid drinks made with unboiled water, and trying to read The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat. It is extremely hot and humid. Before she collapsed in the bamboo-filtered…
. . . and yet this woman did not look like her, except for the little white shoes whose sole, where the toes went in, had imperceptible scratches like those of dancers. —Breton, Soluble Fish The Boston Ballet is doing “The Confusion of Modern Adolescence” if you remove the first and the second to the…
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