I am drawn to Phaethon’s friend, Cygnus. His change seems at least half-willed, half the evolution of guilt. For $1,000 you can have your own genome sequenced to find what difference exists between you & the marsh bird you might wish to become. North of Chambers Street, I sat in the planning chief’s […]
The bees are dying toward Beverly Hills The bees are dying into the sun At midnight it is day the bees In Santa Monica our oranges Fall sideways toward no beginning the Bees are dying America in the teeth By waxlight our bees brim up From no well they have Left […]
Trenat afrohen drejt tyre si fantazma. siç futet nën shtroje burri që kthehet në mesnatë duke mbajtur larg këmbët e tij të ftohta. Posta, kioska e biletarisë dhe ora e mbetur prapa në peron. Pasagjerët e paktë, aty, në pritje prej orësh, sepse e dinë se je ti që duhet të presësh për momentin […]
Trains approach them like ghosts, the way a husband returning after midnight slips under the covers, keeping his cold feet at a distance. A post office. A ticket booth. The slow clock hung on a nail. Some of the passengers have been sitting on the same chairs for a while now. They know you’re […]
If everything when it occupies an equal space is at rest, and if that which is in locomotion is always in a now, the flying arrow is therefore motionless. —Zeno, as refuted by Aristotle Drink with me in this zinging arrow − this train, in our borrowed, cracked maroon leather booth. Let's share […]
A galaxy, maybe, I said once to a pitcher in Annapolis, ceramic the swirled ink colors of deep space − or sea − neither place I've been or will likely be, though both throw into sharp relief the hues of what's more familiar: a highway-side prairie, a garter snake, house- fly, fallen weather-threaded maple […]
What is it about my sunbathing knee that draws the damselfly − the sheen of sun, the faceted near flat landing; or my still hand, either left, or right, above, praising the weather of wood grain and how copper freckles are made by an absence of impatience and a taste for waiting, for mindlessness − […]
Today, I get what I measure: the word I woke to, a day that starts without me. Outside, amongst heady warming blaze- bursts of mum, antiseptic sweet breeze off the rose bush, into a ceramic mug […]