Stars fell all night. The iceman had been very generous that day with his chips and slivers. And I had buried my pouch of jewels inside a stone casket under the porch, their beauty saved for another world. And then my sister came home and I threw a dart through her cheek and cried all…
Did you see the modest girl who was ravished by young Neil on a sunny day on top of a hill: and no one at all near at hand but a young child who could not walk. Pity O King I wasn’t his, I wouldn’t have uttered a cry or shout though he would have…
I was reading about rationalism, the kind of thing we do up north in early winter, where the sun leaves work for the day at 4:15. Maybe the world is intelligible to the rational mind; and maybe we light the lamps at dusk for nothing. . . . Then I heard wings overhead. The cats…
A head of cheese raised by wolves or mushrooms recently rolled into the village, it could neither talk nor walk upright. Small snarling boys ran circles around it; and just as they began throwing stones, the Mayor appeared and dispersed them. He took the poor ignorant head of cheese home, and his wife scrubbed it…
Sometimes I see the schoolmaster on the boat that is shiny with brine and comes from Asia. He is the Ancient Mariner and his finger jabs at a pamphlet soaked with salt, the words running away from back to front, the albatross outstretched, its eyes glazing. The rickshaws arrive at the wedding, with the dead…
for Laura Jensen The boats are rented, complete with open sail, as if there were a map, somewhere to go, somewhere besides the cold and nautical Charles, one river wide, up and down, and slow. Even the moon right now, in love, in cloud, is piecemeal, something of a city ghost— something about the sun…
House, house, go away, you’re looking prettier all the time and look me I’m a rag, a brush, a mop, a hammer. I’m your lowly employee not what I intended— I wanted shelter, a self-propelled houseboat. Housepainting for a fortnight now, I have no idea how long I’ve been stroking white up down back forth…
One day the physician Oberdorfer approached Kepler with a stealthy smile and – could it be? – a wink, and invited him to come on a certain day to the house of Herr Georg Hartmann von Stubenberg, a merchant of the town. Kepler did not know the man, but he went, thinking he was to…
Your absent name at rollcall was more present than you ever were, forever on parole in the back of the class. The first morning you were gone, we practiced penmanship to keep our minds off you. My fist uncoiled chains of connecting circles, oscilloscopic hills; my carved-up desk, rippled as a washboard. A train cut…
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