Wind takes your hair like a hooligan owl and leaves a deep pocket of dusk in your scalp. Love without pride is a love with no end. You keep calling me in to fill up your head, but the mutinous dust of the dead yellow field says better not listen to a thing with a…
It seems farfetched, I know, but when we tethered toy horses in the lea of the patio the moon wept like a candle, and the dawn when it came crept along the dusty panhandle. Best not to worry the truth like that yarn about Turner strapped to the mast of the little ice age, better…
In the nick of school busses. Office slacks. The rest of the game: Welcome Home, Girl. Critical objects to fragment and pony, sure—but I got this softshoe doublestep down. Books all memorized. You rolled some tardy & went fish-eyed in the cut: a tired, trifling air kiss bye-bye. But that’s the providence of maybe. The…
In Leeson Street? we find ourselves in a Georgian chapel of ease,? an elite mass rock, in an Irish lexicon,? in a credo unravelling, in ambivalent government attire, we stand, genuflect, stand again and disperse,? miming handshakes and the bluster of concern. What stains our hands— March as before whipped in a narrow light— as…
As Written by Mikhail Bulgakov Little cartographer, little sparrow, little bathtub sitting upon clawed feet, little aquarium cracked and housing a dead crow, little anvil, little hones holding large sickles, little swan of the question mark neck choking on flakes of black snow, little water truck nose-down in a gully with a rusty tongue, a…
I Family is and is not a velveteen pillow theater a dinner hour mistake with candied yams on the side a box at the bottom of flightless penguins hitchhiking through town footprints in a cemetery II Symmetry two moon pies per gypsy greedy art and dirigible need rushes and reeds tracing paper on papyrus the…
If there is such a thing anymore? as a humble servant in the vineyard this is he, a man from the coast home on his lunch break working the stooped enclosure below me as I read and revel in the feral words of murder on what passes for a roof garden with a view of…
The moths in the orchard squeal with each pass of the mistral wind. Yet the reapers and their scythes, out beyond the pear trees, slay wheat in sure columns. Christ must have been made of shocks of wheat. When they lashed him, four bundles of fine yellow burst forth from each welt. And the women,…
They seem disappointed in you, these faceless women, these shrinking enlargements standing around you, some turning away from the eye you can see through. You want to be open about all this, but what’s left of your mouth won’t say so, and what’s right can’t say anything good or bad. You wonder where you’ve been…
Spring 1987 - Digital