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Imagine that all you can do is glitter and you are only one small star in an expanse as wide as infinity is, and surrounded by a darkness filled up with other glitterings, fire and rock making flame into a voice. And these other small voices are all you hear in the void, their cries…
Only the colorless eye is undistracted: a lake Rubbed blue by twilight is not blue to the eye cast blue And a violet sunset cannot be refracted Violet through the violet eye. A crimson retina Won’t conceive the paint of a rigging blooded by dusk Or the stain a star makes, cutting its patina Crimson…
We raked until raking puffed our mitts with hot blisters. Then we desisted. Wind de-raked our raking then, spilled the tops of our piles, blew new-fallen bronzes across brief spans of lawn. We worked like the damned: I the Sisyphus of fall, you the Sisyphus of autumn. Rakes dropped, we drifted through discarded wrappers to…
As I walked onto the ward a soldier’s voice rose up tender out of the dusk— I thought you were my sister. You have those Irish features. He was American, a medic during Tet, whose spirit returned now in spurts like flames from a clogged gas jet. Death tanks down the door and your mind…
It’s September: I’ve moved into town, into the attic of an old barn—a big open room I reach by climbing a ladder that rises through a hole in the floor. The room is long and high, with windows at each end, a row of skylights that leak rain, and shake and chatter in the northeast…
You’re a nurse now and this ward ain’t the schoolbook, so you sedate him, paraldehyde, 5 ccs each hip, and don’t expose it to air, it’ll turn to vinegar, it’ll eat plastic and it reeks, use a glass syringe and DON’T DROP IT. Junkies howl and sweat and beg but they won’t seize and code…
“Name the eight states that begin with the letter M,” Mohammed, my driving teacher, says. I’m forty-one. Am I in school? I glance at the rearview mirror, glad I can’t see my embarrassing STUDENT DRIVER bumper sticker. I spread a ghost-map across the windshield, quickly scroll down the East Coast, top to bottom. “Maine. Massachusetts….
A low sound in the hollows fills low places, fills hollows, carves a hollow from the right place or hollows being in place, a sound I heard in a strange place, in a strange state, just off the road in southern Utah, just over the border, just off the desert, where a field of wheat…
Christmas defeated Chanukah once again last night by a margin of three billion dollars or so, but every time I hear a Yiddish word like bupkes in a movie (L.A. Confidential) or when Oleg Cassini in that new play Jackie calls a garment a shmatta, it’s “good for the Jews,” as our parents used to…
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