The first door.The tympanal organ. Whatflight—what pollen—what call—what slightiridescence, the veins,through the leaves,the watching. The drop down, within reason. Within reason. Un-dressing. The first door.Crepuscular. The wing-span. What elongating,aviating, undoing light, what,the deltoid, the oblique,it was asking, sinking,onto the bare back,again, whatyou cannot have,its elevation, its softlanding, almost paper,clearly moving,across.
Over 380 personswere kidnapped betweenDecember 1, 2023, and January 3, 2024,across Nigeria. —International Centre for Investigative Reporting on the basis of trust, I receive the eyes of a visitorto a saucepan, redress my throat with eggshells, spreadcaution like a balm to my knees, with moist frettedby the gnawing of the news at arm’s length. justanother …
Snow overlays the diagonal record. The line splitting the heart of the deer’s hoof vanishes along with the heart. Any hiccups in gait are effaced and packed. A hole poked in the ground cover might emit blue light but not evidence of direct register: a hind foot landing in the same spot as a front …
We must have seemed so strangebrushing past traders, exorbitant umbrella hawkers, squeezing through thick processions of secondhandT-shirts, dresses, corsets held against the body in that public, most intimate fitting room of the eye’sapproximation. Across the stretch, wind thrashed the dampness of rain.On we’d go past Ambassadeur, through Accra Lane, sighting the blue-tiled Taj Mahal of …
Here’s a story. One evening last summer I stood on the balcony and for reasons unknown looked south through the multitude of Art Nouveau Mehrfamilienhäuser stretching away from our new home into the distance and into past centuries, instead of west across Zürisee towards the sun settling precariously atop Uetliberg where the sky makes an …
Your brother can go to hellfor the hell of it and have no choicebut a motel on Route 6north of Scranton, the wax paper bagslined up on the king-size bed.Forget coal, the damned until doomedand fallow shaftsin strike songs about strong men, this is nowthe abysmal substance,not a miner but a moonlightingIHOP waiter the underworld …
Let’s give ourselves license to pulleach other’s cords. I bet, like dolls,we would spit the same lines fromthe same movie. As if the script’s beenetched into our bones. Let’s not denyour connective tissue. Let’s be infusedwith the glee of a mob beelining fora one-day sale. Yes, and let’s refusemiscellaneous tax. Let’s swap curves,celebrating our common …
It’s a barred galaxy feeling no pain.It’s a spark caught up in a high wind howl,the soft, silent arc of a thrown in towel.It’s the last spring snowflake circling the drainor a new shooting star with deadeye aim.It’s a comet dragged by an undertow,a lost bumbershoot flying out of frame,an age-old nova in the here …
I like trees that shed: sycamores, aspens. I like the shagof the Shagbark Hickory. I prefer my river in the RiverBirch, my paper in the Paper Birch. And the stagof a staghorn fern & the lantern of a lanternfly? Yes.The seeds of my mother’s ashes are thrashedby brown thrashers. I grieve her swallowtails, also cattailswindblown …
over a mediocre beat, & nobody bothers to ask who “she” is, or if shemade it home safe that night. I can’t help but wonder how many horror storiesI’ve bopped to. How many truths I’ve assumed to be fiction, thinkingWho would be fool enough to make public knowledge of their private sins?When Bobby Shmurda got …