Alec Dinwoodie

1. Two-Fisted Tales       A cowcatcher jaw splinters the door.      “Jack Ginch, you slants!” The opium den clears.      Strike a match—so much for that sinister ...

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 ...