Doesn't, when we touch it, that sheen of infinitesimally pebbled steel, doesn't it, perhaps, give just a bit, yes, the subtlest yielding, much less than flesh would, we realize that, but still, as though it were intending in some formal way that at last we were to be in contact with the world of inorganics,…
At the meeting a guy named Ben had talked about a slip he'd had six weeks earlier. Stopped at a package store and for no reason he knew, walked out with a six-pack. Drank it, called the wife who told him to get lost: went ahead and got lost. ended up in the Portsmouth P.D….
The wild snow foretelling winter the snow that whistles down the supernatural into the ordinary world the snow that covers the little matchgirl while she dreams the snow that melts in the gypsies' campfire that melts in their song that snakes over the black branches in the North of France where my aunt calls to…
Every evening dries on a roof of tar, and the screens twang under the weight of bugs in a place not yet given to me. Metaphor doesn't mediate our understanding of the world; we take what comes. Cars in the late night and screams from children are linked to appetite, and make me fear for…
trans. Hungarian Jascha Kessler and Maria Körösy You're so brave, you camp-followers of Cain — after Baudelaire, yet! Shit-shoveling first father, your visa was validated when that cretinous cudgel whammed the wandering flock's shepherd, that day-dreaming pastor, the smoke of whose sacrifice could rise up, while yours charred on the ground. Murder — sanctified as…
trans. Danish Alexander Taylor and the author The wine that ripened up along the mountain slopes late that summer we met each other is already golden and full of the aftertaste of an abundance, evaporated like years in the sun and the night breeze looks into me with its poplar leaves: I am tired…
In 1862, Flaubert recalls for the Goncourts the beginnings of his liaison with Louise: “He told us the story of his coupling with Colet, initiated in a drive home in a carriage, painting himself as playing the role of someone disgusted with life, of the dark, handsome stranger, of the suicidal romantic, which so amused…
a clear zither complains far into the night, the moan of wind and rain swirls round in the strings. a solitary lamp, a Ch'u horn heard; a waning moon glides down behind Chang Terrace. already the fragrant grass is withered but still her lover has not come. a letter home cannot be sent for the…
The power of the celestial Lion is broken, his blazing ardor decreasing: after nights of showers of stars the late-summer sun strolls leisurely like the old lion in his cage. It was the female who wanted what might be love's last encore, not he. She pressed against the male's flank, her great, yellow body coyly…
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