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.
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
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
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
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.