RHYTHM IS THE INSTRUMENT

When it comes to the next life,  half-seen is only  half-believed;  if every uninterrupted  second of our lives  was an object  infatuated w...

land  battered bare like a skeleton— like a picked- clean rib cage: empty,  shrunken, brittle, frivolous— like a blank landscape  painting i...

As if brand new  to the fierce  wild angles  and delirious  verve of their  iridescent bodies,  hordes of starlings  have begun  to swarm th...

To the tire- marked rat corpse,  lying half-squashed  in the pockmarked  asphalt of the alley's  left wheel rut:  yes, of course  I hope...

We label the chutes  and bulbs now emerging  as aconite , snow drop , crocus , or primrose — as if it profited us  to designate discretely  ...

"Get with the program," we like to say— as if joining the story  already in progress— however nebulous,  humdrum, or rotten— would...

Vis-à-vis our tendency to cling:  define "nostalgia"  as that pillow of your past  without the suffocating weight  of all of its m...