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The sun will set. Fireflies will dot the yard with their coded come-ons:flash yes, flash yes. The farmhouse will glow from its windows and the boys will each pile into separate beds. The cows will sleepon their feet. The day will prepare to begin again. Out in the yard, the moon comes up with only…
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America as a culture seems to support poetry that reaffirms what we already believe is true rather than poetry that surprises us with what is actually true.
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Take your skin to the trees. Where leaves remain wet and sourthere is no hope. Where a tree has fallen silent, make no sound. Provide for the woods. The day has no hourswith sallow gray light all the same, and so time ends. The day ends. The world shifts into night pathetically, beaten and insincere.…
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I would like to have that kind of perspective.
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We’re totally on a break over here.
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