Among the peopled flowers my legitimate crankiness forced into diaspora, none have been more far-flung than the aster. I do not understand how such star structures are formed. Unlike me, the aster throws rays blazing from white to pink or purple about a disk that is usually yellow. Flower heads of a composite type leave…
was the often walks it’s in all the books—psalms, Solomon, the ones with all the pictures of men walking at night. A legion of staves, and etched onto the leaves, where here I have witnessed some blind world of the blind beneath a torch held in a sheaf on which sketched, a face, Says…
Adumbrate. Omne animalum post coitam tristam sunt. Had this boyfriend once recited Latin to me as we walked across the campus to B & E an empty house—some physics major. I thought romantic. As in, the streetcast shadow adumbrates the sleeping wall. A fickle, melancholy, sketchy trait. See more at umbrage. And if I partially…
Do you have roots? Or do you picture yourself an astronaut inside a bubble suit. Altitudinous above the troposphere, suspended like candy below the exosphere. Connected to a stalled, mechanized version of your future self by a twisting. Gold umbilicus: how sweet to be (simultaneously) the perpetrator and the crime’s. Sole…
That summer I saw you as a bird, a whitethroat singing O Sweet Canada Canada but a strange sooty color, then as the dwarf peach that had never borne ruddy with hanging fruit, actually bedecked like a Christmas tree. Everything promised transformation, day into night, stars unrolling like an opera score for owls, crickets, and…
for Taha Muhammad Ali and for Aaron Shabtai From nothing but his fear, and kiss her cunning brows Who braves the risen salar, daughter’s bursting ripeness Moaning through the sash, he marries to a settler The crown sits on his head, to hold her as he wants For him the dead king’s wife, in a…
Night sweats to the rattle and clink of their armor— marching grooves around my bed, pulling toothpicks from tatami to disembowel each other, or skewer and roast a beetle, fine bone china of their sake cups rolling the sound of marbles when they drop them on the hard- wood floors at dawn. You think I’m…
The shame of an idea is in its seriousness, a conqueror’s seriousness, shameful the way it surveys the landscape of remains, laying claim to the vast ruined view and each surviving privacy alike, claiming its own pure force as the origin of things, seizing even the moonlight on the leaves of half a…
Tastes like the melted centers of toasted marshmallows. Tastes like tears of nectar squeezed out of clover blossoms. Tastes like sips from rivers running through lands of milk and honey. Remember those wax bottles filled with colored liquids, how as a child you bit off the top and sucked out the sweet purple, or red,…
No products in the cart.