There was such a strain on the silence between them after he'd eaten that it had to be broken. `Maybe we should never have given up the farm and come here. Even though we had no one to pass it on to,' Michael said, his head of coarse white hair leaning away from his wife…
“What forgotten reverie, what initiation it may be, separated wisdom from the monastery and, creating Merlin, joined it to passion?” Yeats, A Vision She pulls the sheet of this dance across me then runs, staking the corners far out at sea. * * * O I’m lucky got a car that starts almost everyday tho I…
He made a crude wooden clock that threw him out of bed, a strong-armed Gabriel, he called it. such genius watched the new bone carriages tottering down their chutes, the magical brooms kicking their heels spreading around the world, until one flipped and the file sailed from his hand into the sclera. for months…
A white thing floated near the wharf, like a tangle of intestines with a single wrinkled eye in the middle and a mouth. Three couples in weekend clothes stood in a row and frowned at its undulations with intense silent interest, then dislike. "What is it?" said one of the wives. The boat cast off…
In the orchards we would take A rolled-up newspaper and light it, And shove this torch into a wasps’ nest. In a moment the hive Would be thick with dead wasps. Only one or two flying out of the fire. * * * Now, when I walk in the shade of these trees, I know they…
Unhealthy nymph you come toward me with glitter of decadence sequin drenched blue angel with hectic flush and slanting eyes hard bodied doll tough hands chalked dry you pump, rise drum against the membrane like an infant’s head against the bag of waters held at twelve o’clock the limits of the law What are you…
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…
The game of baseball is not a metaphor and I know it’s not really life. The chalky green diamond, the lovely dusty brown lanes I see from airplanes multiplying around the cities are only neat playing fields. Their structure is not the frame of history carved out of forest, that is not what I see…
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