Silo number nine looked like the Tin Man’s head, bearded with the shed that bristles Management Only The fog clung to the roof like a laurel, wreathed with six dollars more the next Friday. Walking down the corn was a grown man’s job, and Your
Missing you is easy when The rim of my red plastic bowl Chips gawkish fractures into the egg in my palm. Maybe I miss the porcelain bowls you picked out when I was seven. Maybe Inland Empire Eggshells just crumple easier into my bowl-bound Flour
After James Wright Now, at twilight, the grasses in the field are green enough to smell. White-tailed jackrabbits dodging to the tree line. Their skittish ears remind us we are not alone. Hiding in the shadows of fallen-branch shelters, they are the most patient.
We heard only the shudder of a jet approaching louder, but it could have been the end of the world, and it wouldn’t have mattered. I was in the kitchen, washing dishes, soaring through the window, the light that brilliance right before the mist takes
The creek-bed is littered with salt and silt and chicken wire. At one time, the cattle could stand on their own. The fencing rust-eaten but still thick with heat. You stayed with the children until they fell asleep. I tried to explain how
I am interminably white. I limp, gasping and feathery, into your last blueness. I want the adoration of flowers. O tightly wrapped little things, cheeky reds, delectable yellows, how they close against me! How do they know my beauty’s all glam glitter over bone?
It is as if the old woman in the square raised her hand to you, and I, the devoted master, packed you off to Samarkand, thinking you would be safe from her influence. There is no Samarkand in these parts, nor dark old women known
In Teotihuacán, we walk on sheets of glass, thick enough to sustain our heavy heels as we tread the sky of the model Aztec city beneath us, scaled and laid out like a blanket. Outside, there are ruins. In here, things are complete, and we