We move beneath that infinite shadow, always. And it does not suffice as atonement. We deceive those closest, acquiescing to desire. We are ...
On a cold clear morning I endeavor to separate my body from language The oak is nothing. The grass is nothing and the dew is nothing. The sl...
1. Let me begin with the cerebellum. Let me begin with a crowd. An undulating mass, redolent of a cornfield under wind. The zephyr of sound ...
The velvet minutes bend ineluctably towards dusk and its encompassing stillness. A plangent void into which you repose, reverent, languorous...
You know how every so often - and this could be a Midwestern thing, you might not understand - during the dense torso of summer, one afterno...
You find Gilbert’s terrain, and it feels like home. The city and the hard, cerulean sea: really they are one firm, elemental thing. Visceral...
We do not imagine the writer during interstices, just as we do not imagine the climber reposed at base camp, savoring the inertia. Throwing ...
This is a fragile mood. Everything vaguely erotic. The sultry weight of summer, the veiling diffusion, the dense dark foliage; the lubriciou...
We endure the heat, and we wait. The sun steady in its track. Vicissitudes of light, shadows thinning, growing long. We endure and wait. Sal...
All the new thinking is making its way to the old formal structures. All the old formalities are of little use. They fail to fit the new abu...
