He grew up in a small town by the water, where people answer questions with another question. Long summers, rebellious without cause, and on the river’s edges, leaves graying like sideburns. On Sundays, four women wash clothes slapping their men’s shirts on the river rocks. Four other women imitate the first, taking revenge […]
Ai u rrit në një qytezë buzë ujërash, ku njerëzit i përgjigjeshin pyetjeve, me një tjetër pyetje. Verat ishin të gjata, rebele pa një kauzë, rrethuar me dy baseta të kuqërremta ngasjesh. Të djelave, katër gra lanin teshat në breg duke përplasur këmishët e meshkujve, pas gurëve. Katër gra të tjera në lumë […]
Ajo zë fill kur fillon të kërkosh një errësirë të ngjashme me veten, si rimën në vargun pasues, për pak muzikë, apo shkëmbim karboni si lulet në mbrëmje, ajo- ndjesia e të qenit dyzet vjeç. Dhe është vetëm çështje stili, mënyra se si ato vendosen mbi njera-tjetrën. Sepse nuk pritet më përplasje, dhe as zhurmë, […]
It begins when you start searching for a darkness that resembles you, as searching for rhyme at the end of a following line of verse, for a little music, or the exchange of carbon dioxide between flowers in the evening. It – the feeling of turning forty. And it’s only a matter of style the […]
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 − […]
…If the world knew how the light bulb loved the socket then we would all be better off. –Matthew Dickman, "Love" − Or how the needle adores the vinyl right all up in its groove, how the laser's crazy for the spinning disc, and the guitar string pulls at the pinch of the pick. […]