Issue 129

All week, they have been managing financial operations and developing policies and strategically planning, and now they need to clear their pummeled minds and cleanse their sad hearts and witness the emergence of molten colored glass, pulled from a burning furnace, stuck to the end of a long metal blowpipe.

Be thou our invader.

The premature hive of you.

In the future, someone must invent
August for the insects.

A family lives here, here things are a bit wild, yes, I’m trying to maintain, give me grace, please, look, there’s beauty in the attempt—and all of this is not only the subject matter of the yard, but the aesthetic, let’s call it, an aesthetic of too-muchness, or, as in a line from a poem I jotted down in my commonplace book, “the is-ful ah!-nesses of things.”

The season of victory ends with little notice,
like the passing of a neighbor.

What is the feel of a petal opening?

It shouldn’t be so difficult, finding a harm-free way
to love the world, or at least to love those parts of it
that we love.

I lost my lost saints in pieces.