In a Tudor castle now a vast used bookstore in Hay-on-Wye I came upon a mid-19th century library of one William Terrence Wordling sold together by the estate and shelved alphabetically by a clerk, not yet sorted, truly seen or
Farther back than my grandmother (something strapped to me that I feel but cannot see) I turn into a dead end so narrow, I must reverse with due care (no hard shoulder, grass verge, safety net). Grandmother’s floor-length dress
Lonely (Canned Ham) “Do you have a canned ham?” the thin little woman asks timidly in a shop on the day before Thanksgiving. Two Drunks Drunk, she burned every part of their dinner. Drunk, he did
You believe your brother will come down after the rains and rock with you through the twilight suicides of moths against the bulb hanging from the porch ceiling like an answer or a bald old man on fire with love.
And once we climbed over the wire fence and skated with my daughter on the dark rink near the Charles Hotel, and the police rolled down their window and gave us a glance. Another time I lifted in a
One minute he’s looking at you, full-size, in anguish, and the next he’s a stricken Harryhausen figurine. Someone with cooler blood would be wishing for a compendium of diseases but you’re pressed too personally into the event to separate symptoms
In the wrong lane, the slow one— I do what I have to, to get out. It takes awhile, and the dynamics of the lanes shift. Shift again. Nineteen minutes to get there. Cars pass me, but why do
Leaves in the eaves of the photograph’s blue sky, a sky not flat but arching and pretend-deep—I look up, it’s September and the tree in the backyard’s fading, soon enough it’ll be winter, embered, crisp-curled leaves all matrixed on the
after Montale When he saw me coming from stickball swinging a broom handle, he’d call Killer from his chair on the stoop.
On my bed in late afternoon I am listening to the thrush with his song now down perfect if not pat, and a note drawn across a tractor a mile or more away, yes, here among scents of honeysuckle and
Why is it awkward to acknowledge each other’s presence here? Who says we can’t meet in public, can’t stop and sit together on a bench and watch the dogs go by? As a child, I looked for you
A Woman in Damascus That Year Her soul’s in my hand and she knows I’m there medicating speech with the wool that clouds left behind on the roof of sleep I climb a ladder of thirty collars endings
By way of introduction to this month’s collaborative “Featured Selection,” per usual, first a brief introductory interview with the poet, followed by the work itself and some biographical material. An Interview with D. Nurkse: “Early Anthropocene” and Other