Cloud Cuckooland, Aristophanes called it. Frank Lloyd Wright said the modern city was a place for banking, prostitution and very little else. He made prairie houses with Spartan walls and …

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i mind is a night wing in the blind atmosphere that sprinkles the ground with its own dust. you are your own muscular witness in a wide station of wandering …

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Just off the trail among the quills of the birches the porcupine had settled, comfortably into its final business. It looked like a fur hat abandoned in the snow melt …

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Another spring cracks open on the rocks as the seagull drops living mussels on stone shore, alights to tear the flesh. I know the fierce gull. I know the creature …

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If that’s the word: the song’s already gone before it’s uttered so the ear is left full of its emptiness, bereft. It seems the loon opens its throat to some …

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The cat’s paw keeps getting bigger. Soon we will have to give it a name. At the vet, the young receptionists all laugh. Tell us it’s perfectly natural though they …

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the light stretched and tangy, up on its horse and riding through the ripening meadows, buzzing the leaves and the birds who’ve been at it for hours. Light that in …

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If every event on the calendar went sim-saima-sima-lo with dead leaves and a black boy and a black girl snaking their thighs towards dawn with or without moonlight falling on …

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The swarm came as puckers in smooth song, the swarm from your father’s heart, that is to say, not directly from his heart, but from his ability, his responsibility which …

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