1. He’s sleeping again, and inside he dreams that he cannot eat, cannot sleep— and then he can’t. Not like this. Not in this room labeled C3 on the second floor— on the kidney side of the hospital. 2. And then, I’m addressing you— You are lost again, your usual stomach pains. Your body, falling… Read More As the Sun Rises, The Brother Disappears in the Shape of an Acorn.
In Midnight Orchards for Dragan, these haikus and lines The sunset falls like gold over water: softly, deliberately, before the white horse envelops the sky. Then, there is the moon— followed by the apple trees. Your dreams, long and dark —like seamless flowers—and later, the wind in your hands. My skin converts… Read More In Midnight Orchards
The sinners don’t often come here to learn to write—their skin pale with too little sunlight, the lost pigmentation. They float like lost souls in boats over the water, drifting slowly toward and away from one another until the snow comes— snowflakes falling like small questions— will darkness fall like winter here? can’t I remember… Read More At Wolf Lake / Just Outside of Prophetstown
At first, there is nothing but the sound of breaking branches— until there is an engine, a dusty hearse, a line turning the corner, car after car, the police leading the way onto the Raccoon Lake [main exit], all accompanied by a flag, all too like a man burning a tree for the sake of… Read More When the Leaf Lifts, It Falls and Leaves Behind a Fossil of Water.
Your favorite mornings were when you turned off my skin— my hair became elongated fiber my eyes, melted and frozen, over and over. * It became this soft repetition— this event— of cars and medical wire, deer crossing the street with nowhere to go but up and over— up into the stars, over the neighbor’s… Read More Hanging From Your Neighbor’s Window, A Brass Key Ring
It’s winter—and we’re walking on a path where there used to be leaves. You point me in the direction of where the car ran off, right there, right behind a series of bushes that look like birds, the skeleton of a path left over beneath the trees. A mailbox marks the place, red with rust… Read More The Snowman.
The gentle faces fall and collect, fall like deer into the field— over and over like soft moons. * You remember her skin and how it rang with moonlight. And though the moon may never sing, the image made sense— the way that shine seemed to quantify sound.
The gentle faces fall and collect, fall like deer into the field— over and over like soft moons.