June 05, 2013

Maybe love really does mean the submission of power...

A Late September Afternoon in the Office of the Birches
June 04, 2013

Sometimes, a squirrel like a thoughtagitates through the leaves.Scrabbling up the papery barkof a birch tree, almost free.When I close my eyes,the cool moss on the rockagainst my cheek feels like a memoryI can’t recall—ice cream? peaches?Sometimes, the wind delivers.But there are no messages.A gash of blue quartzveins a boulder in the clearing,pulses, fixed.One characteristic of light: it reaches.Sometimes, the wind sloughs into readiness,silent upon the strings of the birches,and like the deer I raise my head.

White Fur
May 28, 2013

In the town of my childhood, little of note ever happenedso when the albino deer was found drowned in the slough having been driven onto the punky ice by dogs,the game warden brought the dead beast to the school. I might have been seven or maybe six

Onlookers Gathered at the Traveling Chair’s Arrival
May 24, 2013

                             —Mississippi, 1940

Drift Away
May 09, 2013

At work in the upper field,                                                    hay tops little buddhas,Calming the meadow and all its attendant tributaries,Porcupine, Basin Creek and God's blue hand like a skillet lidPressing us down to infinity—We t

Summer 1968
May 08, 2013

We'd watch the news on my portable Philco.The jungle was black and white.  The bodies were black and white. The whole house strained in its silence.  I was 1A. One night my old man threw an alarm clock across my room.He screamed something, but all I

My Father Asks for One Last Thing
May 03, 2013

Bending over rows of four o’clocksnow wet with evening, he picks offdead blooms, tipping their seedsinto an envelope for next year,though he knows he won’t be here.Through the screen door, I smellcut grass, wild onion, gasoline.Under his T-shirt stai

Just-So Story
May 02, 2013

              I was at home under the shade of the gumbo-limbo tree Reading the story of what happened to the little elephant with unbridled                Curiosity.  Still, I ask too many questions, even now.               I was imagining the commo

May 01, 2013

                         You were my crib;then my cellar cell, whose overhead            door I banged on night                            and day to wake you; then my grave—           but no, you weren’t a coffin                               exactl

The Greatest English Poet You Haven't Heard of
April 28, 2013

Edward Thomas began to write poetry when he was 36. Three years later he was dead, killed in battle in the First World War. Yet in that short span of time he produced the hundred-odd poems that make him one of the most beloved poets of the twentieth century.