The soul yes was murky and no one could see it. —Adelia Prado Something of the fog has burned off— something in the high oaks and behind the sounds of…

At a certain hour of night, the lampshade thinks it’s an evening dress.

towers behind me in the photo you took before we left for the New World. Welders rise from the old world like the dry wine of Apold rises from the…

I drink milk late at night, in the mountains. Its lonesome white A beam That carries The melting snow Of mother’s breast— A moment of healing For the child I…

but I know what I like, I think, when the kid admits I don’t know Greek, looking down at the Latin on the page. Two minutes in a still classroom…

yours—no matter you can’t amble     much or gamble, your temples are wailing like a trombone or that you’ve hit a dead-end occupation:     talker amid texters, reader among scanners, writer among…

It’s hateful to be mistaken or forsaken. Worse yet to be bitter, full of spite. Which is why you should believe that all is not random: That awful marriage that…

It’s hateful to be mistaken or forsaken. Worse yet to be bitter, full of spite. Which is why you should believe that all is not random: That awful marriage that…

[Climate Control] Room 551 begins to fill with fog flowing in under the windows and we discuss between kisses what laps over the levee. [Room 551 Party] The Chilean has…

All through this black moon night I’ve been woken by offers of sex and the weeping chorus of balcony dogs. I ask you to turn on the fan, to lift…

The Commiseration of Whale-Watchers Whale-watchers, we do not want to hear about your afternoon squinting into the light. We know only too well how heartache comes at the end of…