· the cultural society ·

Leaning in to blind wind frantic gulls ransack light

the itching sweetness of a low tone’s slow ascent

Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day. — "Papa" John Phillips                                          JANUARY 2 Stunning porch lights, on all night                                          JANUARY 9 & the cold slaps my cheek, a hint of snow but this                                          JANUARY 16 false sun blazing. Deep night & still 65 degrees. The green                                          JANUARY 23 of my lawn is […]

Relief      to see, at the end      of day, the grace      of sails unfolding      into night’s first      gray.

A Murmur in the Trees Nor near enough — to find A long — long Yellow Not audible — as Our A Hurrying Home To All Of Although I heard them But then I promised ne’er to How could I break My word So No fear It is dead — Out of sound — Out […]

“An alien in jeans sold by a promise before Levis.” What of construction the line becomes if not the real of stories, what other realities can we structure, what other measures through what other coils, what other face, what other other. No such thought as knowing   over the curved space of stone, no such […]

Thoughts of it, thought or not, are mostly that. There’s always been a pointlessness. Rejoice.

The river’s a starry fissure — we share this forgetting. In a similar clearing, my sister crawls from a wreck.