Get our latest essays, archival selections, reading lists, and exclusive content delivered straight to your inbox.
we are suspect men birds earth wrists cuffed
bent over the hood of evening
what are they asking what have we done?
who can blame the birds (whose hearts are a thousand chemicals)
that they hallucinate
the rayon day-cover of the moon?
who decides? who commands the visions of the beasts?
beloved be the mini-flashlights of their notes turned on too early fading
birds too clover in the dusk now to sing
hardly being with
neglected slight-wings of the ardent mother of atrocity
birds! she uses two eggs
cracks them in the middle
would you be the most violet beast listening at the wall
of the lectisterium your shallow leek feet
curling on the sienna mesa of Melancholia?
are you leaf
men rustling in the little republic of breath?
can you oratory a little queen to say I love you at the vanity table of
or take a seat yourself before the absent mirror?
there, do you see yourself
Ariel in tights striped spook applying a foundation?
what is that look when you pause just a look?
not bitter in essence as Dido is bitter?
do you too like it black
waved like a limp licorice wand before an orchestra of terror?
eat the scream in your mouth no one will know you ate it,
you punk you dodger of rains children still fling themselves into
the huffing accordion commotion of Becoming is a broken idea
there is a boiling-together rather an El Greco thigh
or three condors fighting over an elephant
folio or the vapor-choked station of St. Lazare
blotting its sentences at this darting juncture
a watch clouded by breath
ah, if the senses could burst the multiplication table
freakishly all-tissued and the concept accept its femme
or would it be heaven just to be AMONG
the least exposed AMONG the most exposed
muffled in an antiquity without period
fields and fields of atoms not saying anything not blowing?
the evening big and small
knows it is to all
that each is called
as one who would be called
the rain in the roof of the mouth not zenithal get down and on foot
find your hat or not you are the rain’s
silverheaded cane a luxury
the rain tapping at matter’s root as at a wonder
Vital reading on politics, literature, and more in your inbox. Sign up for our Weekly Newsletter, Monthly Roundup, and event notifications.
But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.
Protests in China are shining a light not only on the country’s draconian population management but restrictions on workers everywhere.