Features

Late Spring

 

is the most important. Everything else is just an excuse for it.

E.g. weather in medium shot that you take extremely

seriously. Cloud above German city, white, covering

the blue, dispersing into formlessness, gossamer

and dissipating like ancient knowledge. . . .

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Self-Portrait with Braid

 

In the morning my eyes look thirsty

like a willow leaning toward

its reflection. My mother waits

 

inside the circles. One day

I will remember her at her last age

and see her peering from the windows

  . . .

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Good-bye to Golden Nights

 

If measuring

one’s life as circular

makes sense of movement,

how should we muscle

meaning into days?

As if we end up

where we’ve dreamt,

starlight for eyes

and train static

within the folds

of memory. . . .

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Hit It

 

You don’t have to believe in the Devil

to end up with him. God’s not so easy.

 

Say God takes the form of an egret.

Say the Devil also takes the form of an egret.

  . . .

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All Lines of Order

The Boquillas Trail is located in a remote corner of Big Bend National Park in Texas. It begins with several long steps sloping gently upward, followed by a number of shorter, steeper steps which veer out of sight to the left. The gravelly sand of each step is held in place by a half-buried log, . . .

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Hell and Reason

In February 1943, as a boy just shy of his eighteenth birthday, Charles Fisk wrote home to his parents in Massachusetts: “The work I am doing means nothing to me. That is, I don’t understand what the object of it is. Of course, the principle of the whole thing is secrecy, . . .

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Little Double-Barrel

1.

Her grandmother’s shotgun came to Ms. Hicks by way of her brothers, Tommy and Jack. They insisted she take the thing, she was pretty sure, because A) it was the one weapon of the family’s collection they least wanted and B) they were amused at the idea of her having to own it. . . .

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Queen of England

Dewy and I were not good sons. At home, we sliced the drapes to make togas and blasted birds with pellet guns we weren’t supposed to have. To make our mother nervous, we pressed our skulls to the microwave door and licked the sticky bottoms of our sneakers. At the grocery store, . . .

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Still Lifes and Landscapes

 

Morning in the mountains. I am going down home

early. The road empty, wide, smooth as my hand.

Sun streams heavy bays of light. If I could remember one

use of beauty, the persistent type, on whole unhuman,

so much more space made for possible peace. . . .

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Crossroads of America

In our green Plymouth station wagon, we crisscrossed the map. My mother let me choose our destinations. “Any state but Georgia” was Eve’s rule, though I still memorized the Georgia motto: Wisdom, Justice, Moderation. 

Her other rule: we couldn’t stay more than a month in any place. . . .

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