by The Editors | Nov 27, 2013
To move across the landscape like a lost springbok. A bounding, arcing comma pure and certain. She circles in a falling scrim of flake and snow, through fractalled water without weight. So, wild mind plows paths...
by The Editors | Nov 19, 2013
In a city without winter the leaves don’t change-and-fall, they merely fall, without fanfare, without meaning. I was afraid to move here, where we knew none of the 4 million, and had no place...
by The Editors | Nov 11, 2013
What did I want from her? I already know one half of life is to build, the other half for wind to dismantle. I know a person’s gait conveys the number of stones in their heart. I know history...
by The Editors | Nov 3, 2013
I visited him three times. The first visit we spoke about T. S. Eliot’s play The Cocktail Party and the character he reminded me of, a sort of spiritual psychiatrist: a no-nonsense male authority figure with T. S. Eliot’s world-weary deep rueful skeptical...
by The Editors | Oct 26, 2013
If to a hammer everything’s a nail, Then to a nail everything’s unfixed. To the unfixed the world is storybook, And to storybooks love is to be read. To be read is to be fixed, to be nailed, To be...
by The Editors | Oct 18, 2013
To hear her tell it, my mother was a housewife for decades in the 1950s—collecting blue glasses from boxes of laundry soap because life came piecemeal like that. Her husband’s greens slick with bacon fat like...
