Articles

We have never wanted to touch the dead.

I had to shield myself / from beauty to survive it.

How do you remember a part of your life when it freezes up on you, when it makes a living corpse of you and you walk through your days dragging your feet, scarcely noticing anything around you.

the flowers give a scent of honey

Nadine swiveled toward the oddly familiar voice, seeking a face. All she saw at first were bare feet propped on an armrest.

White wood ripped from a tree

Outside our window the sky carryieth forth / its indigo routines

Apparently, thank God, they have a tour guide, swaying upright, a column of shining, jeweled scales. The guide investigates them with faceted, ravenous eyes.

Really, this is why I’ve always loved and needed poems: they sustain the contemplative hours of the early, unbreeched morning, whenever you come to them.