Weaverbirds
We used to climb the thorn trees when we were boys And annoy the weavers building their summer nests. I always kept my shoes on. You were older, Your footholds surer, scrambling up on palms and soles Dusted gold with pollen. You found where the birds Were at work. They were spinning dry grass into [
un-nested
moss between my fingernails following birth- marks on cracked bark un-nested bugs crawling to breathe into her mouth-less- ness melting into cheeks trickling down when my magnolia turns blue i ponder and mend forget-me-nots soft pastries my mother used to make that i stuff inside he
Contact Sheet
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Inferno XXVI (trans. From Italian)
A New Translation and Dramatization of Inferno, Canto XXVI: The 8th Circle of Hell. Odysseus (In rags, with clay pipe, red-faced, moustachioed. He wears the pale pink nightie of an empress. Appears on his haunches in the London tube. Looking at the ceiling. Puddle of phlegm on s
‘TEASING MEANING OUT OF THESE SILENCES’ ON SAPPHO AND THE READING OF FRAGMENTS
We are strangely drawn to bits and pieces. The blunted shimmer of sea-glass, newspaper clippings, crumbling broken hazelnuts atop a cake. But what if we were thinking about fragmentary language? Words ending mid-sentence ] random indentation grammar eluded dissolve our expectati
Giraffe
I see that today you look ever so sad, And your hands are so delicate, clasping your knees. Listen now – far, far away, by Lake Chad, A lone giraffe wanders, swaying in the breeze. God granted him poise and graceful, slow airs, And his fur is mottled with magical shapes, A pattern with [&he
