What could it say that wouldn’t spasm us back to ourselves to be bait or a dead prayer? –C. K. Williams The rabbits are scattered, left with nothing left but their astonishment. Winter has placed its silvery hands on something growing in the ground, a root and leaf, fresh in a nest, and it looks,Continue reading “Snared”
Must the morning mist, almost mystical amidst the moss, amuse muse And mistress, but con- fuse a Mr. with a Ms. and not a Mrs.?
The last wasps inside the temple —oh, only two or three are left— un-fold their wings and prepare to die. The temple grows in the silence. A skin of frost forms across raked sand, across the carefully placed stones. The garden browns. A spider inside and outside the temple: A last wasp twists in itsContinue reading “A Parchment of Bones”
A leafless tree should be like an old man falling in love, the way, he imagines himself by imagining his bride to be. She warms him even as the winter ice stills his blood. Call it the vitals of our being. Call it a last breeze, our marrow. Suppose a leafless tree is a poetryContinue reading “A Leafless Tree”
For the philosopher, Porphyry, the sun was not so much a real thing as it was a name for that which we could not possibly name. A name for God, say. Every day he set out his seed to toast in the hot sun. He thought about how a shaft of light can transform aContinue reading “Porphyry, his Seed”