The reason I am keeping a journal this season of the hearings and the horses is to put down those "bits of the mind's string too short to use," as Joan Didion once said. Things tie themselves together with little quote marks and perhaps the string crosshatches itself into a statement in time, who knows?…
On the balcony of the tower I play my flute and watch The Spring rain. I wonder If I ever Will go home and see The tide bore In Chekiang River again. Straw sandals, an old Begging bowl, nobody Knows me. On how many Bridges have I trampled The fallen cherry blossoms? — Su Man…
you will go home it will be cold you will warm some- one your sister your cousin a girl you meet in a park in a bar her elbows red with waiting you will clap your mittens on her ears you will sing songs from the frozen territory you will stir her slowly and the…
All your life you have been standing on the edge of a cliff. Below the cliff, a river. Snow the other side. You kneel holding a harvest of roots. You remove your artificial eye. You erase darkness. Light. For the first time you see your feet have turned to stone. You have become part of…
My uncle believed he had A double in another Universe right here at hand Whose life was the opposite Of his in all things — the man On the other side of zero. Sometimes they would change places. Not in dreams, but for a moment In waking, when my uncle Would smile a certain sly…
Suddenly there she was between us on the bed, the one third party and broken off relation I would least like to see share in our menage. Tight-lipped and glaring, she waits for me to do the introducing, own up to an old association, and with hanging head advise you not to be surprised by…
When the moon rose she rose, an effigy hung by her yellow hair, a long-necked bird trumpeting doom. Old Hag! We tossed her to the dogs and still she would not die. She mapped our lives. Slit Eyes! How she could stare. And far in the distance of our sleep something wanted to strangle itself….
During my father’s walk, he went underground to pin down rails, pushed his back against cement walls when trains slammed by. The day’s hammering done, he headed for the circle of gray light. His father first went down into the tunnels and in his dotage bragged of breaking the 1911 strike by staring the men…
Dear Mother dear, Now this here’s an Edda, which in Icelandic means “greatgrandmother.” Snorri’s Skáldskaparmál: well, Aristotle’s Poetix it ain’t, not by a googolplex of parsecs, no ma’am; nor is the Gylfaginning any Iliad or Exodus. But our nothern temper (born of winter nights on the iced bridge, bred and borne on the vast namelessness…
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