He’s out of work, he naps Extravagantly, his lines of credit Tighten, his boundaries dissolve, he’s So hung up on her, he counts The rows of wire squares on his screen Windows, he counts Eyelashes, he counts the hours or days Until he sees her Until she breaks the date And he starts again from…
The earth swept clean of creatures not its own: earth, ocean, air, to you do we belong only? No! The long climb up from slime turning on a dime remains, hanging on by a thread to the dead generations, lowly, encapsulated though once I read in TIME, that wisdom of the week we twitchy moderns…
for Pop, my grandfather (Martin Gavin) she told me the story when I was sixteen over whiskey sours whipped up with the white of an egg It was late afternoon a warm rain wriggling down through the soot on the windows the kitchen so warm it felt like summer but,…
There were days I loved women so well, I became them. I unrolled my hair in the mirror and cried. If I became myself, walked along the sidelines, and heard the shuffled gravel sounds, everything passed too quickly: the children dreaming, birds circling over the exhaust of travelers. I talked to others under eucalyptus, by…
Running my five miles a day, I frequently encounter some smart-mouthed motorist who will pull alongside me and ask (from the safety of the driver's seat): "What are you in training for?" Deep and regular breathing is the secret; I am rarely out of breath; I never pant or gasp when I respond. "I am…
With my daughter drowsing on the curve of my stomach, her wet stripe socks kick my legs I tell her rainbow stories: I imagine everyone in the world, a big pile heaped lying on top of each other each rubbing and scratching the back of the person above. In this massage coins tumble from pockets,…
I’ve shorn over two hunn’ert in a day, but big sheep knocks you about. I used to go mad at it, twisting and turning all night. Couldn’t sleep after a rough day with the sheep. 1 In town, in the foodshop, the men are making sandwiches, cutting bread, cutting meat,…
Once she had been a photographer. Now as she hears the shutter click across the room, too loud, Helen wonders why it should be her husband who takes these family pictures when she is the one with the skills. She knows what the finished pictures will show: a stylishly thin woman, her four handsome sons…
I hear typing so I go over to see what my wife is writing. There is something like a museum about her tonight, a feeling of great space and flames that burn unseen, inside houses in the nineteenth century. I suppose she can hear hooves go past, outside. I suppose that she can sit by…
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