Wednesday, May 13, 2009


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


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


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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