Suppose your mind is made of words that seek the sun with poison from the soil; that your sentences could climb as vines do, chest high at dawn, a canopy by noon, yet come nightfall, a miasma of torment and entanglement must prevail; that you are made illusory by our simple present tense, even asContinue reading “Mandrake Root”
A disordered mind Welcome vernal equinox You’ve come a long way
When the boy in dog pants thought of ash trees and poplar trees growing in the forest, he thought the land too poised. When he thought the land too poised, he set pots of fire to burn among the trees. They set the forest on fire. He thought: Amazing, really, to hear the pine treesContinue reading “He thought the land too poised”
as luminous and numerous as Tuesdays are don’t get used to them
We fish dream of July. What fun we have with the tiny kids from Lyndhurst Blvd where kids live in a jar. They must, you know. Otherwise they’d grow big and lie, and these kids never do. They read the same books every year, and wear the same swim suits, and swim in pairs outContinue reading “Wee Fish, Tiny Kids”
Torn from latent roots Thunder, the cloud’s carnation The cicada reigns This is an unsolicited continuation of Anna Mark’s ‘Cicada’. It of course has to stand on its own two legs.
Dry as dusk, tight red skin turned to white wattle, a memory, now so much less, is veering off into a single parable; the pomegranate, whose fleshy seed-pods, if not a heart or a mouthful, holds at least the promise of diastolic fullness it seems we will need at last.