(for my father) What the world spoke today was not the world but what I thought of it. Six days of rain. Through my blurred slice of window I saw a fragment of what there is to see. How small I am. How large to notice that space among spaces. And shortening my vision I…
Complete lack of peace, so same dust which is only as some consistency to the moon's rule over and through the night trees. Here, eat this flower as you might eat a stranger, stem and all and road given to going crazily between peace and hatred for agreement, water slight against slight road, the door…
The town was nameless because it could have been any town one was new to, alone in, and he walked its main street with a hesitant sense of possibility, a sizing up, all the shops in a row, this open door or that. He stopped to look in a window, and, seeing no one but…
A tidal river. Small planes all day, low across islands, sliding over spruce ridges. Took his canoe after two beers, said he was going clamming. Divers in wetsuits, standing around. The state cop reports the tide was all wrong, nowhere near right to go clamming. Where floodtide churns at the Narrows,…
I died when I gave her the rose, hadn't ever felt so gravely dead. Warren—the brother— resented me, tore the rose (or so she said). The house of the dead is a mile long with candles: the moon is out but they don't talk about the moon. The marble I named doug has been dead…
Last night some acorns fell and woke me as they struck the roof. Each acorn rolled, a die cast down the shakes, to tell my chances in the sun and in the snow to come. What might have been a grief, I didn't go to look for in the night. I closed my eyes to…
I From the Harborview hospital window the city seemed a predictable plaything. Component pieces of this high-rise map left me chilly and bored. Two masked men bent over my bed. With cave-dwellers' eyes they squinted, and cursed the imperfection on white skin— a trail led cross-grained to my mood-swings. With bandages wrapped, the blood burst…
station in Dover Delaware, mint green house, facing it, the white shade bending in the little final sunlight left. Light within above clock, people, even a head or two. Or here and there, out of time.
Loosely bound and buttoned on a pole, clothed in the gardener's cottons, the scarecrow stretches as if to feign sleepiness, and sparrows spurt from the garden, beyond his sleeves. He swells, and soft green light invades the narrow rib, a space to fit a life in, but the breeze drops. It seems he needs only…
No products in the cart.