1.
The bleached corpse of the afternoon
mutes the surface of my window.
Pinned to the wall, a peacock feather
pales quietly in its light.
Minutes trickle by. Outside, a man
presses his face against my door
and whispers. Frustrated cars
roar and slide around the building.
The day ...
That I am walking home in a city so old
its stone shares substance
with its darkness. That loneliness
sinks leaden and still older
through both. That my throat
aches dense to stretch
and die strangled on her body.
That it cannot swallow her whole.
That towers and walls ...
This poem has been sent to you for aesthetic pleasure. The original is in England, but millions worldwide read it faithfully each day. It is not a virus, but an opportunity to gain aesthetic pleasure and pass it along to others. To do this you must pay for and distribute twenty ...
There is a globe of rainy air clasped in the fingers of a tree outside a balcony. Squadrons of bees cruise through in formation, humming with a cool yellow majesty. Squirrels thrash at branches beyond, spin around in panic at the pale slivers of sky. The tree rustles this secret ...
The air unclenches, buzzes, swells the city like
a blush, cracks the ice around my lungs. There are colors
to breathe again. I suck them in: a voice, the blue
pull of the crowd, her breath red on my hip once. Below,
the river sparkles as if about to sprout fountains.
The ...
In the dryer. I could see a wide circle of my mother’s apron. She pretended loudly not to know I was there, and finally reached in to tickle me. I tried to slam the door on her arm in my joyous panic.
In the niche between my old bed and my bookshelf, with six Playmobil ...