More on: Lance Larsen

The syllables of my beloved are sweeter / than the cherry yogurt that once brimmed / these cups, her clavicle sturdier than corncobs, / her skin fairer than papery onion skins.

How many minutes does it take a gut-shot buck to helter-skelter through scree and lose the hunter? How many days for turkey vultures to convert death into gliding? How many years till some schlub hiker like me stumbles upon the remains? There it lay— a tableau in bleached bone, flight and collapse converted into sleep.…

He will burrow and gallop, buffalo the prairie again, penguin the unhatched egg, then sleep off centuries of miracles with the three-toed sloth. What a magician, one minute pirouetting among banks of cumulus, the next grazing underground cafés with the star-nosed mole. Out of caves, from under bridges, a million translations of a single verb,…