For I will consider the purest praise For the last hymned Amen to usher children running Forward towards the bell tower doors – ornate and heavy – To clog the entry – excitement keyed higher – To loosen the rope from its tethered position To grab all at once for the sturdy three-in-one – For …
another Monday again I surrender to the whisper of snow My wife is reading Freud this evening. I sweep the fireplace, the ashes from Sunday more interesting for what they were. Phoebe says something I don’t quite catch, something about desire. I stare out our picture window. I inventory our yard. Pine, twilight, beast, leaf, …
No, I haven’t read the newspaper today, like most other days, I avoid licking the tips of my fingers to flip the print because who needs ink smudges on thumbs anyway? Reading the news almost guarantees performing the Rorschach inkblot test on myself. So I don’t. Because being your own doctor is hard: What do …
Cold rain paves the path with gold leaves, calls to mind the future: fall of snow. Must every bright thing fall, all wither, freeze, erase our swept paths, our steps? How to become like the earth, that feels a fall as a drawing down, the way a lover’s face is drawn down? How to get …
Offshore I wanted a ring with a carved Indian face, or a horse hair instrument that droned, but the Gulf was beaten with oil in its gills and feathers, a desperate mix, viscous and black. Give me the horse skull, keep the credit card. Give me a great blue adventure, I’ll just stand and stare. …
Everyone has a story to tell that’s set inside a bar. I remember the long year I loved a boy from school, how every day at five o’clock we met at George’s Lounge, how we became familiar, the aging lady bartender calling out in her clear voice–Miller, Miller Lite– before that big door eased shut …
What I’m about to tell you is true. It was in the paper some few years back, but I’d forgotten until you asked about my sister, asked if I thought she was a pretty baby, asked if I’d taken good care of her. The answers are yes. She’s the one with the rich red hair, …
Someone more romantic might say it has to do with the rhythm of spoons, the toy piano sound of silverware tossed onto a table. Someone else might say it has to do with the way I move across the floor, my thick-hosed legs aching to be quick. All I can say is I like waiting …