I never promised to write you into meaning. That’s what lying is for. Like this: the moon is made of soap. I’m telling you a story. I should have been there to say goodbye. Yesterday, I unnamed you. It was easy enough to pull at your long body and think this is a warning. The moon is a thumbnail. If… Read more →
…but there is only time for fasting and desire, device and design, there is only time to swerve without limbs, organs or face into a scientific silence, pinhole of light —Michael Palmer I Chronology is a field of stars. The mythologue’s statistics a zodiacal map, a glowing quotient taking shape. You know you’re old when you scrapbook the car crash… Read more →
In my backwood rot one thousand moths: owl, browntail, rosy maple, aortic, earworm, antler. Negligees in the morning look like windshield-stricken insects or dead fairies when your brakelights fly off trees out here. In me rot the opposites of blue and luminous, a mostly white poem about a bedspread. The words I chose I found in the treenware bowl by… Read more →
Tell him something new today—that we remembered the sharp lines of his body and loved him anyway. The open ruins of Old Sheldon Church letting in the sky. A dry wind or insect wings. Give him the good word—war renders murder into stone. There is something reassuring in that, lilacs blooming like a bell curve and then shrinking away into… Read more →