Articles

When we lived in the blue house
the baby woke every morning
before light.

I’m really interested in the page as an expressive field—how blank space can speak and create rhythm.

Parting: from your perspective on the train, from mine
on the platform. I claim your clocks tick slow, are out
of sync with each other. We agree that my clock
struck noon, just not about when my noon happened.

Fall has arrived with its reds and rains. Shorter days and December weather lumber our way. What better time to hibernate with an invigorating read?

“Mimi,” Vienna said. “Cats.”
It looked like Lynnie’s granddaughter was waiting for her to save the day—to save the world, even.

The page has always been as dynamic as we’ve let it be. It’s an artifact, of course, and its artifacty properties have become more obvious in the age of the digital. But artifacts like this are hardly fixed. As any reader knows, when we read or handle a printed page, we degrade it, if just a little. If not why would special collections require us to put on the creepy gloves? Why do our paperbacks wear out and the spines on our books crack and the places where we dogear pages slowly wear away?

There are few people to whom Loulou the Pomeranian can speak his mind honestly and not be
seen a philistine. “I sometimes grow disenchanted with the Renaissance,” he can say to the
master.

A rifle on my shoulder, I am in the henhouse again.
The scream is one pitch too high for human. The weasel
is a white scarf at her throat, pas de deux of feather and fur.

Dessicated and abandoned,
they lie on the window sill
above the kitchen sink. Each morning,
the sun shrivels the clinging flesh
as they wait

There are few people to whom Loulou the Pomeranian can speak his mind honestly and not be
seen a philistine. “I sometimes grow disenchanted with the Renaissance,” he can say to the
master.