The last time I saw my father sound and marrow-filled, he was standing on the front porch— almost the weight of a ghost. As I waved goodbye I felt a nerve twitch— like a dog’s ear batting a fly. He never sold me the world. He never said that people are…
I don’t often revisit the year I fostered all the neighborhood strays, teenagers enticed by decay and overrun with the lesions that wistfulness deals. I don’t often revisit the year my parents disappeared, but whose house we filled with smoke so indissoluble it consoled like blindness— the year pedestrians crossed the…
reading on the couch, your messy hair finally beginning to gray. You are breathing, moving molecules of air aside, inhabiting space that could go empty so easily. You hold a heating pad to your side where I bruised your rib, clumsy in my hunger for your infinite variety. ya’aburnee, lovers say in Arabic— you bury…
You know how lightning never lasts long enough to get a good look at it? and your eyes do this thing, as if they could grow larger, widen out of your face trying to see enough, longer, more— this happens also when the heron passes: too quickly. Today I lucked into seeing how…
What I got of worldly gumption I learned in the church of false assumption. Under the sentence of wrath and fire I studied the windows, the girls in the choir.
A small room, a small porch, a large window, a stove, a table, a chair, a cot, a few books, a few thoughts, a notebook, a pencil, an eraser…
Gary Snyder is a man of the West and of the Far East, which is farther west. Or say you go to the east, and then you’ll come first to the East, but then to the West, which is Europe the seat of Western Civilization. American historians know that Kentucky once was the West and…
Reach your cup into the air and draw it back full of water.
Them that’s got got to lose. Them that ain’t got, can’t.
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