Hollow, like a tunnel-boned bird, / the cello is held securely by its neck / while one hand twists the tuning peg, / evoking a shrill, sharp sound. / From the farmhouse / an ill-fated rooster calls out…
It’s now, she says. Now, & never again – so we beat on, boats against the current & swooned slowly, heard the snow falling faintly through the universe. I had been there before, lying on my back, thumbing my nose at You Know Who, which is why I don’t tell anyone anything. If I do, I start missing everybody. Poo-tee-weet said the bird under firebombs & the old man was dreaming about lions. Quién es? said Billy the Kid. Don’t let me drop. There, on the ground under the almond tree, pleasure of simple joys & the happy summer days, borne back ceaselessly into gray – there’s no good way to say goodbye.
It’s not like you can compress the files of love to fit them in, there are eight thousand sixty twelve of them in orange steel drawers, not labeled well: you can’t, say, squeeze in rows of tiny corn urging up along North Professor, bottles of daylight leaking in the patient ditch while robins tug the slippery threads that hold it… Read more →
(Florence, Italy) As I approach the piazza’s open-air gallery, Bologna’s Rape of the Sabine Woman thrusts above quarried stone — Romulus’s warrior stands dominant over the crouched Sabine man, while his woman writhes from the victor’s grip — flesh giving way where his hands clench, her expression beseeching an invisible god. Though the woman’s fate is defined by the emptiness… Read more →
Arrival at the Complex Over the rutted high road of this preserve, wide white contrails converge, dimensioning a cloudless vast wash above snow-battened grass: crisscross stalks, some pressed, some melt-released, conduct acute sun-slant down tangent conduits ¬– pattern circumscribed like Ojibwe basketwork in a museum by four roads’ roar, township, county, principality, continually appearing in satellite photographs, proving here is… Read more →