On:

not that one takes a bowafter every two lines this body mostly waternow spoke of in halves or raise one finger after fourgive ourselves an extra hand after six but one might celebrate quietly after eightthis body mostly air now imperfectly squared I’ve worked at Water Street Books in ExeterContinue Reading

On:

The raucous sea, far belowan outgrowth of colorful flowerswafting fragrances into the air,its undulant swelling movementcarries the tide surging toward shore,its waves heaved high into the air,with splashes of briny teal,topped with white whiskers,like an old man with his restlessness. James is a retired professor and octogenarian. He is aContinue Reading

On:

not that I clove to youlike a ghostly sheet, love rolled my tongue into an Oor another self, taut as a clothesline, some caricature bent to my likenessor some trucker’s star hitched half to the wind, half to the littlepill slipped under their tongues I’ve worked at Water Street BooksContinue Reading

On:

(after Henry Darger’s collection, as told by Olivia Laing) amazing howbits of stringconnect the daysdarn up the weak spotsentertain the eyeflower in a dark roomgutter rescuedhandled carefullyimagine being threaded through a cityjust as you were falling apartknots to puzzle over at nightlines crossing lines, patterningmyriad layers appearing asnesting material forContinue Reading

On:

not that there’s a reef or fish leftthat figured in the last of our dreams, ate whichever lore the fishermanpitched from the clouds too over our heads & we could count on like gold sheep to sink uswithin an inch of that coldest & deepest of sleeps where even theContinue Reading

On:

I would sit in the blazing Alabama heat with my cousins. Picking nectarines from my great aunt’s tree. I must have swallowed a pit,Since I’ve had a knot in my stomach since I was 10. Or maybe the pit wasn’t the first knot. Maybe the fermented juice running down myContinue Reading