at your marker (they call it a marker) a footstone hipper than headstones earlier mapquest led to metro north google to the most reliable cab service in peekskill I bring wheat tall dry half-live stalks bought the day before (new york has everything) no one questions the harvest shooting from…
She feels the shape of another animal three trees ahead, & raises her left front paw. Dew trembles on each blade of grass as a snake uncoils among the leaves. She’s a goddess in a world mastered by repetition & unearthly cadence, pacing off light hidden in darkness. She eases down her right paw, slow…
That he left it behind when he left. That it has three teeth. That it might be the horny snout-end of a defunct dragon. That I remember him, early on, putting it in and turning it when it broke off. That he looked at me and said, Uh-oh. She doesn’t want us to get…
In this thin air, your voice carries for a quarter mile, grating like a train, and I relearn the ancient lesson—epic sadness travels. Your braying turns everything tragic. The face I shave: crossroads of dolor. The bed I make: labor in lostness. The scrambled eggs at the end of my fork: another bite of a…
They are, my love, a cross between Einstein’s and wheat fields. Twin mustaches. Strands of sugar right before the cotton candy is spun. Astroturf welcome mats. The cellophane grass of Easter baskets. Caterpillar chia pets. Brambles and squiggles. Seaweed strewn on shore. Spiky cloud tufts that lift up when I show you my slip or…
morning dropped a gentler rain after wine and gin encasing the unseen unmentionable as clouds deftly encase wasps-in-a-shroud and stay aloft without a string unmentionable even after headstrong long-gone spins of wind (go go little gallop of smoke lithe cantering steam come come wild unthreadings anything not to envision his fingers pressed against…
For a long time, walking it, we sang Woody Guthrie songs, This land is your land, this land is my land, and got along with whoever came our way, although, to be honest, few came back and those who did had downcast eyes, a sort of sad sack hangdog look to…
What goat goes roistering through the bracken of my doubt? What lantern lures me from the cave I could have withered in? The road is long and knotted, dear, from the credulous dire country of boyhood to your honest kiss. We pass the tool and die shop’s grind and click. You make a song of…
for Esbjörn Svensson (1964-2008) This ocean: simmer of handed-down fishscales & salt spreading from here to whatever’s after like soup spilled on a transcontinental plate. Here, starfish pucker up with Xs where their eyes should be. Here, in the sweet effervescence of nearsightedness, the ocean simplifies in its own gravity. Half-done shells are split then…
No products in the cart.