Slate gray lake. Willows in a rough wind. On the far island, where the shoreline is tattered with fallen trees, it is not yet spring. The waves won’t allow it. Won’t allow anyone to land there, let alone to leave. Not today; maybe not for a long time to come. The bramble takes…
His beautiful daughter was attending church. He sat with tea and limp tortilla chips watching the rain. Not feeling left in the lurch by things, but wondering at the odd ellipse. Surely she wasn’t enamored of the pale Galilean on the shore; —apocalypse yet further from her mind. She could inhale the fumes of fellowship…
Whoever said that I should count on mind? Think it through, think it up—now that I know so much, what’s left to think is the unthinkable. And the will has grown too tired to stamp its foot. It sings a vapid song, it dithers and mopes, it takes its basket to the marketplace, like a…
All the way home, I kept thinking of the lost finger of St. Teresa, displayed in the gift shop of a convent where she spent most of her life being thrown by the devil down the stairs or gripping the handrail after communion, so others wouldn’t see how it took all of her strength to…
how was it sudden your long death shock fixed black parking lots ramps the bright art in the hallways flagrant flowers a fish tank in the white places one latex glove like petals spilled on the way to or from some room with a horror in it glass coffin rice flour your skin taking on…
Down on all fours. The breaking of rules the only rule. Cut off from clear lines of retreat. Beguiled by excess. By like-minded folk enthroned in ever tinier courts.
Johnson, Vermont Yet another metamorphic swimming hole, waterfall where language fails. Gneiss, schist, slate. You can hear nouns meta- morphose to verbs, gnarl, shiver, split, then strip down, tumble in granitic kettle-holes and camouflage themselves in green water, green because pines hang above the fault-line and shade language from blue-blank sky where some- body’s watching,…
Well, another year has passed! And, while it hasn’t been a perfect one, we have survived. Oh, first there was the house burning down—everything ruined: furniture, original artworks, priceless family heirlooms lost because of some sort of electrical short according to the arson squad who, incidentally, interrogated us for 3 months, making damaging allegations to…
in memory of Penny Cabot Decades ago you showed me marsh marigolds At Carrigskeewaun and behind a dry-stone wall The water-lily lake’s harvest of helleborines. As you lie dying there can be only one lapwing Immortalizing at Dooaghtry your minty Footsteps around the last of the yellow flags.
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