poetry

  Grove Park Inn Summer afternoon, the Great Hall’s cool dark felt like entering a cave. Refreshing but ghostly— an all-knowing chill from those thick granite walls, four-and-a-half feet deep, 100 years old. I watched wealthy guests dine on the … Read More

  A professor and a doctor walk onto a farm to measure the mechanical pressure and heat surrounding the inflated carcass of a cloud decomposing on the ground by a tractor. From time to time, they can make out the … Read More

  We were on the grass in the back of the palace snacking on rare songbirds when Jerónimo sprouted peaches out of his fingernails. The peaches made him look large and threatening, and in the early morning and dusk, he … Read More

  it is sort of creepy but actually also quite beautiful really if you think about it you look around the room at the accumulation of your days the books of words your eyes have traced the endless art your … Read More

  Stuck inside, I notice what isn’t: the broken clock on the yard’s back fence; the squirrel jutting from its den like a figurehead on a wooden ship. I question the wind for the first time, my mask tied tight … Read More

  she found a collection of old vibrators when she cleaned out her grandfather’s art studio and the gold and green painting of concentric lines, of a thirty-year-old woman’s orgasm coming against the color of her kitchen appliances hangs in … Read More

  As if to say a body discovers what the mind can never comprehend, my son Jonas is always asking, “Who invented numbers?” “What do you mean?” What does he mean? “Not its shape, the line, like ‘l’ or ‘I’ … Read More

  South Dakota border. Brown mule stirs up dust, leopard frogs disrupt blue stem. Cicadas, their long songs, comfort, hush and darken the wind-broken groves. We walk the deer path along the ditch side, dusk. Stems of wheat bow. The … Read More

  Come see the moon, she says. So I go. The backyard is quiet and dark, private and wild. The dog nudges me with her nose. You’re drinking too much, she says, her eyes locked on mine, her long tail … Read More

  If the ocean rises over me while I sleep. Before the whaling ship and garbage barge.   If the volcano I can see from the supermarket erupts. Where the tree line ends, the caldera and the lake.   If … Read More

  History, I say, with its high ramparts, its engraved swords. I say the bees are falling from the skies, the apple blossoms will not come into bloom this year or next. The fish gorge themselves on plastic. Or I … Read More

  1 Rain in an unused pool   Lack of attention is a kind of dirtying.   We are tension stretch. We are land filled   beyond our fill. A landfill where boys and girls   stir and sort, sift … Read More