Random frames from the flow of time Are dealt like hands of solitaire Or perhaps a fortune being told. An unknown woman in Victorian dress Is sitting, back-turned by a lake, Blond hair across her shoulder; A cat drinks water from a tap. The smiling faces of strangers and friends Arrange themselves in no strict…
It is Because I am Obsessed with This thing. . . . It overtakes me. Do I conjure it Out of space, Scratching its Sound on paper In the tilted gazebo? I only know I Do hear it — there. I am brushed by The precise flit Of its shadow, Enervated by Each visitation. Like…
excerpt from a novel in progress (. . .Anna Maye Potts is thirty-six, fat, unmarried; since her mother's death some twenty years ago, she has been keeping house for her father and working days in a nearby candy factory. Now her father is dead too, and her younger sister, Mary, who is married and has…
Nous five-o’clockerons àminuit. “Will you have aspirin in your ink?” “Thank you. I prefer it black.” I bled a little into the milk to give it a character of my own. “I see you have a character of your own.” “I like the taste of my own overripe fruit.” We were silent while he sipped…
Warders in familiar uniforms, peaked caps, and badges– greying family men–tag and number these articles out of the prisoner’s hand-sewn, pig-skin bag: Two sweaters of hanks and hanks of hair, hand- spun and knitted–blonde into black, red into brown– völkische patterns; three pearl-grey chemises with tongue-like ties; one austere silk foulard from Paris, the couturier…
1. A loutish lummox lay a-dozing, Flat on his face, his arse exposing Unto the sun, with cheeks spread wide; When lo! a beetle crawled inside The grandly gaping aperture. Needless to say, the brutish boor Awoke at once, in pain, and hied him Straight to the doctor, who, to chide him Told him he…
I keep going to my own funeral with a spade to help the gravedigger and a transistor radio playing pop and rock to put on the side of the grave because I might get down among the dead and I am afraid of the bones. What if they should get up and squeak No room…
After Verlaine In the endless anxieties of the plain the uncertain snow shines as sand. Of copper is the sky, without one light. One would believe any moon, seen living and dying. As some storm clouds hover infirm and grey, the oaks of close-lying forests are among the vapours. Of copper is the sky, without…
We trace ourselves in order to omit the tracery tense unfolding a flesh offering a limit We travel the ellipse of ourselves each inhabited One inside the other limitless warm surface & not wanting knowing the limit tracing the arrival We come together One orb One & One We fold together unfolding rhythm of our…
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