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Illustration of a bird flying.
  • To the Brown Thrasher

    Weft over warp, twill seams a route to and onward. Listen! He stops and starts in thicket, fairly high, in and out, to a couplet of elderberries across her chest, maybe; my sense isn’t what it was. But even his song smears over stops and starts as a reminder: territory wasn’t marked, land- locked, but […]

    September 19, 2007
  • The Phosphorescence of Thought

    Three splendidly lemoning magnolia warblers uplifting through a maple tree.  

    September 19, 2007
  • A Fitful Beginning: On Philip Jenks’s The Elms Left Elm Street

    The Elms Left Elm Street , by Philip Jenks. Plane Buckt Press, Takoma Park Maryland, 1994.   On the subject of Philip Jenks, an email correspondent recently wrote me this: “I sometimes divide the world into people who love Phil’s work & people who don’t,” adding that this division is “a narrow but helpful measure.” […]

    September 19, 2007
  • across the rabid sky

    1. after your exit the rustling night stirs   2. blue wood in my mouth             the empty chair                                                                  and the table unset pasted frequency withers on my wall my hands wipe circles off the dying in my room i exchange vapor for your unfed voice

    September 19, 2007
  • After Marcel Duchamp

    Painting’s washed up. Who’ll do better than that propeller? Tell me, can you do that?

    September 19, 2007
  • The Phosphorescence of Thought

    Flocked starlings’ geometric detonations inspired like fireworks.

    September 19, 2007
  • May

    Threat level orange town brides leave their whites hanged from fence barbs.                     For everyone to see at night                     a rarely used beam                     on a cantilever, deer                     carved on a vase.

    September 19, 2007
  • Augury

    I. There again, sweat in the throat, bitter buttons fastened, tongue soaked, lambently new. The body’s disbelief — yaw of gait, delicate tango — a withered pulp perceptible. Marrow dark, acidic. Curette automatic as breath. You begin to disintegrate while dancing. The music like mold.   II. Sorrow song, the single crow circles west, whip […]

    September 19, 2007
  • Stirred

    We mimicked the cypress, our knees cropped above the high, sunk-dry prairie, our heels hardpulled into our tails. He’d turn stories, aphetic for histories, genteel and curt: the Trail of Tears and the swampland of the Southeast as sure as succession, significant as skin, hide and bark.

    September 19, 2007
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· the cultural society ·

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