I think of now, how your body has become a comfortable haven

I was thinking today about the first times we met. About when I first saw you, a long-legged man wearing light summer pants and a cream cotton shirt with a Mandarin collar and a cowboy hat with a shock of black hair sticking…

Poem For: Leonard Cohen’s Passing

Beneath My Hands
Leonard Cohen

Beneath my hands
your small breasts
are the upturned bellies
of breathing fallen sparrows.

In this mythos

A text exchange, this question posed:

If we were a god and a goddess, what would be our dominions? If we each had four arms, what symbol would each hand hold?

B:

I am the keeper of the bridge, at the gate of dawn and dusk. On…

Time slips from grasping fingers and skirts the shadows, smirking

I am thinking about Time. Or rather, I am feeling her — how capricious she is, how she slips from grasping fingers and skirts the shadows, smirking. She is magic and she is mischief: she gives the greatest gifts and…

Maybe selfhood is a rough-cut hunk of crystal

An interesting question: who are we, devoid of context or of consciousness? My first impulse is to assert that you are still you, just half-shrouded in sleep or confusion, only half-slipped into your niche in the world. But then imagine the situation…

Time itself, like the land, was unbanded

We mark down dashes in a ring and call it time, and when it doesn’t fit our schedules we fast-forward or rewind. Sometimes I catch myself wondering which time is the real one, and then I remember the question is flawed — the writing does not belong on the…

The memory of your body

“You remember pressure, and a curved sleep you rested against, soft, like a scallop in its shell.” —Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

I wake from curving against sleep to curving against you, like slipping from one dream into another. The memory of your…

Tell me about the susurrant trees

If you can listen to the susurrant trees, they will tell you of themselves. Their speech is uncomplicated by words, as existence is uncomplicated by ideas. This is Truth.

My eyes streaming, I try to catch time

​Riding home from the bar in the single-digit hours of the night, speeding down the interstate, I hang my body out the window and yell. Curling my fingers, I grasp at the cold. I holler, hurling my voice into eternity, as the seconds rush through my fingers. My…