Wednesday, May 13, 2009


If

We will never return home. We will no longer strive: we will no longer die in some far-off paradise. The sky has rotted right through to its furthest strut. Not one glance can penetrate it. The earth has become a bone yard without devotion.

René Char

Sunday, May 10, 2009


May, Amstel

When the wind shows up
the trees applaud
but the river gets pricklier.

Sunday, May 03, 2009


Elms

There’s a blizzard of elm seed along the canals,
piling up in shop fronts and tourist photos; cottoning into recesses, eddying
into a Brownian motion over an Amsterdam
trapped in its own snow dome.

Friday, May 01, 2009


Personal

It was a two-dimensional gum bubble shivering outwards
in a viscosity of glass backlit by a sun so huge
everything was in X-ray. The infinitely larger world
of my nails and skin could never be fathomed by these beings.
This is what a global pandemic looks like at close range:
atomized feelings of fever and pain: an inward distance
beyond ourselves: the quiet colony of refugees in a corner of our anatomy.
The great internal cavity, our very own unknown territory.

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