weather, weathering, etc. |
Just before the downpour the sky brightensin my body I carry the long winter, so that whenthe branches bow with the weight of rain my bones are the seamsin highways, swelling with the frost, making fa...
Posted by on Mon, 11 Jun 2007 11:06:00 GMT |
Standing in the Open Field |
Standing in the open field, I find a sudden sweetnessin the different, meeting airs, how it seemsthe momentum of my breath builds a burrow in the wind. Spiritmight be this wordlessness working a...
Posted by on Wed, 16 May 2007 17:24:00 GMT |
Martin Buber |
That I discovered the deed that intends me, that, this movement of my freedom, reveals the mystery to me. But this, too, that I cannot accomplish it the way I intended it, this resistance also reveal...
Posted by on Wed, 18 Apr 2007 10:45:00 GMT |
Boston |
I spent the first twenty-five minutes of my trip to the Boston MFA on my last day in the city searching for the Etruscan room, with the lines from the Jack Gilbert poem running through my head, "I dr...
Posted by on Thu, 22 Mar 2007 10:03:00 GMT |
June 2005 |
I sit on the porch in the darkness, curled up in the rattan arm chair watching the lizards scurry up and down the walls. When I close my eyes to the sound of Russel's sighing I hear the crickets, too,...
Posted by on Fri, 23 Feb 2007 13:07:00 GMT |
vignettes |
There is something inexpressibly hurt about me. I do not think of it as damage because it is who I am, but sometimes walking the grey clouds unraining I wonder like gazing deep into grasses whether w...
Posted by on Mon, 08 Jan 2007 14:10:00 GMT |
animals |
Something in the darkness before us knits the ancient,strings up the silhouettes of stars. There is a depth in this cold that sends off sparks.And every once in a while a burst of windthat I recognize...
Posted by on Thu, 09 Nov 2006 16:21:00 GMT |
offering |
In the hot tub someone asks if we've seen Andy Goldsworthy's work. I say, "Andy Goldsworthy makes prayers." And they echo back, all of them, "what?" "He makes prayers," I repeat, and the m...
Posted by on Tue, 13 Jun 2006 00:48:00 GMT |
the brain is meat |
Every time I love I go back in time.Every kiss takes place in a room of my past,Where I loved someone else. My life is a constant betrayalof the thing at hand. How does sorrow yield joy?Burrow so d...
Posted by on Tue, 02 May 2006 21:55:00 GMT |
seeing |
In the dream, I stare out the sliding glass doors to a vast landscape of snow. The real landscape, I know, contains trees, a wall of cinder blocks, a bush of rosemary. Just as there is no snow. ...
Posted by on Tue, 11 Apr 2006 00:45:00 GMT |
