#6 (1997)

Essie’s got hair like a dried dandelion. So blonde it’s almost gray, all scraggly thin and light looking. So short you can see right through to her scalp. Sitting in the desk behind her, I like to imagine I’m blowing on the top of her head. I pretend I’m watching the little pieces of hair scatter in a thousand different directions—hair floating up to the…

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The Cataloger

Piebold, Maryellen. “Work By 15th-century Female Artist Discovered Moldering in Monastery Basement.” The Adventurous Traveler. Retrieved  online: 3 May, 2019.  The books on the shelves of the San Francesco sopr’Arno monastery in the Tuscan village of Sieci were almost entirely damaged by a burst water  pipe in 2010 that went undetected for nearly two years. The flood ruined an estimated two hundred rare manuscripts and…

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“In the Morning” and “The Murderer’s Hair”

translated from the Slovenian by Brian Henry In the Morning Infidels measure their prey by the length of an oar. In every sea there’s some  angel in a sunken bell.  One day the Pacific Ocean will vanish. We’re making a new Pacific Ocean. It’s an enormous task. The heat is severe. The weight of all this water quenches  a bit, but not enough. One must use symbolism for the launching  of ships. This pleases the meek. Tomcat,…

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The Holy Ghost in Urania’s Semi-Private Hospital Room

for Tchiya Amet To ascertain what measures the offender usedthat allowed him to evade detection and apprehension,we have assembled a research team. Please remove all your clothing,including undergarments,and place them in this bag. ((lightis directional)) The more proficient offendercan elude law enforcement10 or more timesleading to the hypothesisthat a task force is needed Put on this paper gownwhich opens in the backlike you. ((light is…

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Nocturne

Already dusk, the geese, half wild, fade  from the lawn. We sit  near silence, our feet soaked. Heat hangs onto the night like fever  sweat in a blanket,  and stars  take place in the waning familiar.  It’s not that there’s nothing to say, we just  know better  by now. Tongues honed  on imagined accusation,  we hum  instead, feeling blindly  for the moment  harmony  settles into…

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