after Stevens 1 She is not a cello, not a pear. 2 The nipple is a houselike form composed of nearly straight lines. It is very dark. 3 A crack in the wall behind her of a winglike precision. It moves from her left hip to her right shoulder. 4 The…
My secret pleasure is the echo my indifference makes when you call on me—even in praise, even in distress. You refuse to believe your senses; so you ignore clear indications of thoughtful malice. Yet my example instructs: you strike out at one another ceaselessly and with growing violence; doubt blossoms as spring comes on. My…
Deer Isle Kai says, “Here, let me fix that, you don’t know how.” This elegant mechanism, a present from my daughter, topped by its own wind hat, engineered not to turn inside out in Nor’easters or August hurricanes. Ingenious invention of China and Egypt, emblem of rank in remote antiquity, collapsible shade, pampering portable sunscreen…
A postcard from the X, emblem of death or dollar signs like candlelight in eyes, the crux and crucifix, the map the mark, the ink drop spot, the patch stitched in the crotch that holds your snowmobile suit together, objective of your love, known otherwise as architecture, made of point and arc and light, still…
to turn on the radio to rearrange the scenery to gnaw on the end of the alphabet is to soften it I could swallow its enzymes when I’m silent I could hammer through the windshield and crawl onto the hood where it is warm I’ve done it before to dismantle the snowman he is melting…
take a boy on a motorcycle feeling powerful. He has achieved the status of the boy on the motorcycle. Only something is not quite right. He rides it like yes, in and out, back and forth like day after day, all okay. That’s just what’s the matter, like nothing happens. So when he gets home,…
: One might study ornithology & the bird elude him. : The bird & the study of birds are ordinary things. : The ordinary’s most beautiful: how earth endures itself in building’s brittle sunlight, gecko’s scuttle under aloe, these shadows puddled in mortar & bark & the wind milled blue through palms….
Aged prophets, cradled in Crivelli’s gold, on a heat-waved page replicating quattrocento frescos, seem shy above the trees’ periscopes as if the sky were an unfamiliar cathedral, and, should they appear there now, standing between receding clouds, how gilded their halo, what color their gowns and what scripted tablet would they hold to admonish the…
Beautiful cars Slant away in the dusk You can drive through Honeymoon orchards Where time is one foot above the ground With kiss Or pause for night’s cold career To be alone The crickets Do not think with me of your daughter There She bathes and I sulk In the dirty water left behind Since…
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