Wyoming, 1943 Someone clever has carved a deer out of a scrap of wood and set it on a table or shelf inside a shabby room among a file of barracks, along a street of sleep. In its miniature dawn, its hues are gradually revealed, its legs regain their poise, its eyes open. Someone clever…
yesterday, in new york city the gravediggers went on strike & today, the undertakers went on strike because, they said, of the overwhelming number of corpses stretched out on tables in the overworked, embalming rooms (unnecessarily, they said, because of wars & plenty stupid killings in the streets & et cetera & et cetera, et…
1 Immigration Master Oki played the word from its scabbard, counted by tens, shouting the colors of decades. Centuries are best worn with their collars showing, he gibed. Grab time by the neck, make it speak truth while the record plays and the money's unspent. He crawled into a season, its leaves were damp and…
for K. Curtis Lyle within an avalanche of glory hallelujah skybreaks spraying syllables on the run, spreading sheets, waving holy sounds, solos sluicing african bound transformed in america into hoodoo, inside tonguing blues snaking horns, where juju grounds down sacred chords up in the gritty foofoo where fleet rounds of cadences whirlpool as in rivers,…
1. Tomatoes are not a poignant fruit, not with their wide, affable faces, their compliances with the eager knife. They recline in slices on the cutting board, all their operations a success. Their miniatures pose shinily in salad bowls, beaded with moisture, bathing in exotic dressings. When you bite them whole, they squeal in delight….
In this wrecking yard, our home I turn over to you, a garden you planted long ago with her. Prepared the space cleared, hoed, and seeded. Now in profusion from these rusted, twisted coffins her flowers And before her, you said there were many. Many. This time the exchange in books Home Gardens for poetry,…
Edge out on the thin quaking limb of Arizona, our lost farm, the desert stretched rimless from eye to end. A few stone buildings, weathered woodshed at the axle, then long spokes of wire sheep pens ray out along the dirt tracks that know Mesa and Tucson but stop at the world. The sheep huddle…
For the gain of heaven in the zip code of our area, we need a miracle. Do the red-winged blackbirds that fly past Rick Brothers Propane Gas, and Dinette Beautiful signal a change? And the green anemic trees that sprout like acts of faith on the side of the road, what do they say to…
In a sense it's always winter in this wooded county of our psyche, where my father and I build a house, the rest of the crew off drunk somewhere. The contractor has taken blueprints and a cash advance to Reno. A white sky pays out kernels of snow. My father saws. I nail. Partitions take…
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