Once there was an honest man. He was a well driller. His eyes had filled with the first two wells of his life and after he could see through the surface of the earth to water awaiting his rig, not with his eyes but something like memory already there. What others called imagination the well…
(—for Gary Wilson & in memorium: Kenneth Wilson, 1943-1977) The brutal shift: one minute present—then a week on the delicate liferaft of coma—and the next: past. You honestly begged for him a few more diamonds of breath, until the last luminant exhalation exhaled. Your brother gone and the long O sounds of your own…
i’m still thin and high on having the biopsy negative tho i don’t know where to go after the artists place in the trees The husband who will leave and leave until he can’t come home is back after the first time pleading lyn his nagging is a sticky lullaby i almost don’t hear thru…
Regarding the insides of flowers: this is something about which I have meant to write you for a long time. How awkwardly, but to a bee fascinating it must seem, going in to their sticky centers, half- repellent, touching their furry genitalia; horrible to love and seek so, being dependent: flowers’ perfectly formed hemispheres, the…
I feel most alone when someone calls me by name. Even though there are times I’m completely withdrawn: when the woman beside me, as she’s speaking abstractly, seems more alive than in bed; and although her breathing reminds me we’ll be on our own sooner or later, I feel most alone when someone calls me…
The interior is ordinary although at times the light falls like sand, the furniture edges into itself and the far corners of the room relax like seascapes in the numb hours. Everything changes when a man enters the room, especially for women. A woman who is there is unable to leave although she is uncomfortable,…
My father keeps a circle of silver coins around his bed to trap angels. When they arrive to reclaim his soul the silver disintegrates the strange alloy in their wings. My mother poises at a snow-circle’s center in a game of “fox & geese” while her children disappear down a radius into some woods forever….
For Jon Anderson The unhappy . . . will fight shy of Kierkegaard, either because they are not as unhappy as they pretend, or because they really despair of comfort and cling, in defiance, to their suffering! —W. H. Auden I said I could not have built my community Without the other. I will not…
We are in her kitchen; we have one enormous pot and all the spices are together. We are too tiny and take so long to sterilize the jar; finally, more water is boiling, waiting. We don’t have to call, she hears and comes into her kitchen. We lift her over the pot. she slips into…
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