Ode, Aubade And the morning, too, falters, struggles to assert itself, burn through the errant fog, the pines, scorch the whole grove of trees and crooked streetlamps. Your body’s turning, turning beside me in my bed’s— sprawl? Badlands? You sigh on my neck. Startled, the crick and sob buried inside it like a pulsar behind… Continue reading Greg Wrenn
A child came up to me in the park and asked for a cigarette. Her eyes were startled cats, her voice, a chandelier. I don’t smoke, I said. She took a seat beside me on the bench, resting her head against my shoulder. Her hair smelled like an old dictionary cracked open after rain. I… Continue reading Rachel McKibbens
Genesis According to George Segal The Spirit brooded on the water and made The earth, and molded us out of earth. And then The Spirit breathed Itself into our nostrils— And rested. What was the Spirit waiting for? An image of Its nature, a looking glass? Glass also made of dust,… Continue reading Robert Pinsky
My Aphrodisiac Now that you are gone, I want to tell you, you are wrong. About everything. Consider perspective as a case in point. You loved to inform me that far-away things appear smaller. I am here to tell you that distant things grow bigger. Missing objects are the largest of all. Their shadows can… Continue reading Nin Andrews
Just as the hare is zipping across the finish line, the tortoise has stopped once again by the roadside, this time to stick out his neck and nibble a bit of sweet grass, unlike the previous time when he was distracted by a bee humming in the heart of a wildflower. — Billy Collins,… Continue reading Billy Collins
We’re all terribly, terribly lonely. And there’s a way, at least in prose fiction, that can allow you to be intimate with the world and with a mind and with characters that you just can’t be in the real world. — David Foster Wallace, Whiskey Island, Spring, 1993.
It is possible, of course, that I may exaggerate about them. I certainly hope that I do; for where there is no exaggeration there is no love, and where there is no love there is no understanding. It is only about things that do not interest one, that one can give a really unbiassed opinion;… Continue reading Oscar Wilde