Articles

Not to be undone, wedded
to which modeled universe, gods
spin prepositions, into,
from, between matter, galaxies

then the scent of the chlorine seeps beneath the glass
doors into winter.
If dinner simmers
on the stove into summer, spring, fall. If

Holy Saturday morning. Byron and I sign the register at Bandelier National Monument for the 22-mile round-trip hike to Painted Cave. We tighten the straps on our backpacks, hike out of Frijoles Canyon, and settle into a rhythm of ascent, bodies leaning slightly forward against the pull of our packs. By the time we reach the mesa between Lummis and Alamo Canyons, the clouds have moved in. The rain starts, just a mist at first, becoming thicker until the dust turns a darker brown. Alamo Canyon is a tapered slash. I imagine that when we reach the bottom, we will be able to stretch our arms out and touch the rocks on the other side. The carved layers make geological time real. The steep switchbacks shove my toes forward in my boots. A lizard scuttles across the trail. Small stones roll under our feet. At each turn of the switchbacks, the rocks make irregular steps down that jar our knees.

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.