More on: Poetry

who’s to say here what is not when the hand firmly grips the bird-light wrist the face facing Eve— her son’s as much as Mary’s— furrowed long and lined on her left Adam’s cloak billows back in the blast of blue air He brings the deep blue behind Him an almond of truth that is,…

There is no shadow of turning here but there are spaces for the dark. Neither does the point vanish—receding toward a horizon of agreement pinned to dancing angels, instead gold instead several visions at once see desk with sharp quills curved to light like the mind on the feet that bear good news

Each face turned toward a face at table leaving always a space for one more. An open door to run through when someone can’t quite make it home on their own. Though the wings work, humans haven’t got them, and it’s hard to converse from heights so, in one hand a staff to lean on.…

The blue wind in Greece has been busy all night. Unable to sleep from its breathing, I sat through black hours on the terrace, watching the wind’s shadow and dance through moving objects— the sway of dark branches and the vacant bodies of left-out clothing billowed on an unseen line. At dawn, the wind turned…

When the floor collapses, it’s time to make an act of faith.                                    Dominique de Menil Saint Gregory said the body is just an ill-proportioned building. It is unwelcoming: a windowed room with a wood table and fluorescent lighting. A poverty of meaning in doors and feasts; they are merely nonverbal expressions for what…

What is the difference in weight between two stones. One drowns you, the other is a trifling inconvenience. Any discrepancy measures roughly the width of a tongue. Who deserves even a dram of such mercy if every promise is a mistake in translation. For example, say sin, and everyone’s interpretations vary greatly. But, I remain…

A cloud floats in a pool that turns like a slow clock, helping these insects slide from birthing shucks. * Duns roil the surface, twitch and flutter, a newborn or paralytic who believes he can rise and walk again, if only the wind would command him. * Halos drift around red and blue spots that…

She spoke with the voice of an egret, skin swirled with the smell of rabbit tobacco. He hid in honeysuckle to watch her catch dragonflies, blue-green matchsticks with wings glistening like wax paper. Mamaw called them snake doctors, claimed they’d follow all manner of slithering, stitch them back together when they were riven by a…

Invisible One, when I close my eyes I can see you in another way like part of a Pollock I can make sense of not because I see a figure or a face but because the love of a moving brush slung over wet gesso tired of a life of air proves much. Things are…

The prisoner wants the only window’s horizontal iron bars to rust, the raindrops strung before the gray day after rain, these unspendable coins purchasing light and air, these upside-down opals lined up like the pure eyes of guards who have never witnessed battle. The sun comes through, and his mind drifts to some painter studying,…