Cancer
The cancer appeared in my living room sometime between eleven and three on a Thursday. I am not sure exactly when, because I suffer from bouts of migraine, and sometimes I miss things, or see things that aren’t there, flashing shapes like the blades of warrior goddesses, the vanes of transcendental windmills. A little airborne sprig could go unnoticed some while.
The Rose of the Name
The editors asked me to write an essay explaining the evolution of Language poetry. I don’t know how to. I offer instead theory, history, an apology, a reading, a quotation, and a reading list: the usual suspects.
Various Readings of an Illegible Postcard
Horny or Harm seems the ordinary home.
Or Having seen the orchard and hives,
I’m satisfied I’ve picked the dark pocket
Related
Dear Father I erred
I left my body to look for you
(its image nestles in the center of a wide valley
in perfect isolation wild as Eden)
The Limit
You see, even suffering decays, what is left
is the dust.
The limit is my breathing body.
The Letter
Red, burgundy, blue,
this is my roof, I belong here.
Bread crumbs, jugs, paper and
the wind lifting all of this to the sea.
Jeremy and Wiwar
Jeremy knew at once that he need go no further north than the Isle of Skye. He embarked for Portree and sailed across violet waters under a mizzling rain, with only an occasional maw screeching aft and, far off, a few shearwaters in flight so exquisite as to nullify any notion of assault. He landed in a place of dreams.
The Future’s Not Ours To See
The first time the new phone rang, F. and his wife were pleased. They had purchased the top-of-the-line instrument on a recent shopping trip, one of a number of such trips to equip the new townhome.
Before Afternoon
She sat in a lounge chair with her long toes pointed towards the water. It was a Tuesday, she thought, but that didn’t mean anything. She reached for her drink. Mornings were no longer a time of day, just after she got up. She assumed it was still earlier than noon based on the angle and the heat of the sun.
I’m Not Carlos
There is a whole forest of tree machines in central Maine that have been programmed to turn on me. I’m certain of it. When I am absolutely silent, I can hear them plotting. It sounds like a gentle wind.
