May 25.v
Still going. That brings us back to the stars and space-filling models. It’s one thing to fill a void, another entirely to feed a mouth: your absence is voracious.
All posts tagged: creative
May 25.iv
Now the neighbor’s voice rises in an aria, a shaky tenor, I’m loathe to do work; at some point, everything has become tiring. A stick -brown lizard startles as the AC shudders to life, resurrected from its former frozen state, strange, ice forming in the heat of the day. I am half hoping for a similar result, pushing past all natural stopping points, tired of rambling towards trite collects, tired of resting, tired of tired — […]
May 25.iii
The hawk falls and rights itself, proud it doesn’t even have to beat its wings, so high up it’s currents that bear its negligible weight; for all its presence still brittle-boned. A pair of quails flew over, barely maintaining altitude, gamey, their flight was audibly work, a heavy whirr bearing towards the safety of the tree, plumes bobbing in old-fashioned pageantry. The last holiday I was out here, I took the train back, was struck by the […]
May 25.i
An orange floatplane cuts the drabness of this morning. Perhaps when birds alight and tilt their head it’s not gauging us as a threat but wondering why we don’t fly. The cloud deck is low and so smellcarries, this acreage spiced, medicinal. I have a vision of the sagebrushunder rain, although today will be dry,I’ve seen them lashed, the landmade sea, this house in a floodplain. The finches sing their circular song.The floatplane lands. All this week it will be cooling […]
April 20
Breeze blew my papersdown into the culvert, oh hell. My only defenseagainst an early rattler is drunk bravado. Animals here have fur the color of dead grass,cloud or contrail– it’s motion that gives us all away.
April 19
Silent hill, sparse dove and an elbow of swifts this morning colder than all the rest How do you feel? we ask with trepidation and balsamroot stalks How deep this rabbit warren must go into the hills, hidden they must think by the fine-grained dawn and tumbleweed no longer prey to the pill-round moon and arrow-leaves But I hear it now faint as bird wings or wind caught in sagebrush, sometimes the night stalks the day.
April 18
The dove’s song is throating and low the swift’s song is motion—it sews the air but morning here belongs to the quailshouting Rod-RI-go! Rod-RI-go! Rod-RI-go!
April 17
The stars taste thin tonight. They sing faint songs and ringlike church bells from childhood, harping on the fact that there is no earthly word for a memory of something still to come, their descant muffled by the rich purple scent of the evening, willing us to look back,cajoling us only to sing songs of fire and the past.
April 16
I embrace failure with open arms, as sometimes the sun rises in the West.
April 15
We found the fried codin the glovebox two days later.It was that kind of night and my first in the country.It was wretched but I remember it fondly. A dead man in Galway,men dressed as nunsand swans at the mouth of the Corrib, and rain.Then the few wintering soulsof Inis Mor, and its cows lovely, soft-eyed and ambling.And waking, myself, in a chairto a stiff-backed dawning and the refrain of the innkeeper, born and raised and lived […]
OPTIONAL POETRY 