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…
And sleep to grief as air is to the rain, upon waking, no explanation, just blue spoons of the eucalyptus measuring and pouring torrents. A kind of winter. As if what is real had been buried and all sure surfaces blurred. Is it me or the world, risen from beneath? Mind refining ruin, or an…
What if we could look at language as matter [as real and outside our imagining as granite or cedar trees] and move inside words, the way particle physicists break into atoms with the force of their own energy and light? To track the intelligent chaos of language by threshing open the word, olive pressed…
A little morning of Scarlatti, and prudent flowers, white tulips even whiter in light from the window’s true divided panes, grass, a rufus-sided towhee and invisible fox in shadow, yes, this was witnessed while a second dream went on, a knife slitting through an abdomen and upward to a chest wall, a whole country grimacing,…
He tells the deputies he was drowned as a boy in a well of holy water, and so has returned this way: full wet, a rattle of bones beneath his clothes, and all manner of love for his fellow man coming over him each time the way a storm comes over a mountain. The long…
Days uncoiling like the hose from her fingers, days measured by the mechanical car buzzing down the driveway. Her boys wrestle for the control box, shriek, their calls tear the air, hush the birds, and send her, with hose, to transmit water against their heads just enough to shut them off. Now only the sound…
Arthur Dove, 1931 I have spent all day with the silver disc of the barn owl’s face embedded in my thoughts & my beloved under general anesthetic, his whole form etherized, calcite laddering his spine, strange thorns in the distinct cave of him. I wring my hands, silly spinsterish fret-motion, I say shoo but still…
i. I say Bora Bora. You are not to say Bora Bora. I say Bora Bora for it is one of the names of God. You are not to say one of the names of God. I— You are not able or you are not worthy. — You botch or you rot (transitive). — Botu-lizm…
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