poetry

The soul yes was murky and no one could see it. —Adelia Prado Something of the fog has burned off— something in the high oaks and behind the sounds of hammers, ignitions— a shift outward, a quick long view, to … Read More

At a certain hour of night, the lampshade thinks it’s an evening dress.

towers behind me in the photo you took before we left for the New World. Welders rise from the old world like the dry wine of Apold rises from the tower’s cellars. They smell of young wood as they sit … Read More

I drink milk late at night, in the mountains. Its lonesome white A beam That carries The melting snow Of mother’s breast— A moment of healing For the child I continue to be And for whom You return from death, … Read More

but I know what I like, I think, when the kid admits I don’t know Greek, looking down at the Latin on the page. Two minutes in a still classroom they want to stretch out to twenty, absorbed in the … Read More

yours—no matter you can’t amble     much or gamble, your temples are wailing like a trombone or that you’ve hit a dead-end occupation:     talker amid texters, reader among scanners, writer among cross-hatchers. Soldier on.     Though you cower in a trench of … Read More

It’s hateful to be mistaken or forsaken. Worse yet to be bitter, full of spite. Which is why you should believe that all is not random: That awful marriage that fled you led you to your teenage son, that job … Read More

It’s hateful to be mistaken or forsaken. Worse yet to be bitter, full of spite. Which is why you should believe that all is not random: That awful marriage that fled you led you to your teenage son, that job … Read More

[Climate Control] Room 551 begins to fill with fog flowing in under the windows and we discuss between kisses what laps over the levee. [Room 551 Party] The Chilean has been teaching Sarah to say Oh. He is writing about … Read More

All through this black moon night I’ve been woken by offers of sex and the weeping chorus of balcony dogs. I ask you to turn on the fan, to lift off the duvet, but you refuse, telling me the names … Read More

The Commiseration of Whale-Watchers Whale-watchers, we do not want to hear about your afternoon squinting into the light. We know only too well how heartache comes at the end of a tour. Let your knees give into the sea-sickness that … Read More