tight embrace as if you’d break on letting go. I saw the sky for what it was: immaculate field, burial ground. A voice cried out from across the lake: “Abelard! Heloise!”—your uncle Fulbert calling us to return “right now!” A thousand minnows circled our legs like shiny badges. I couldn’t speak as I gazed at you too deep in bliss to utter a word, too damn ecstatic. We swam ashore and dressed in vain.
A Conversation between Paul Nemser (A Thousand Curves) and Terese Svoboda (Theatrix: Poetry Plays) April 2021
Paul Nemser’s poetry book A Thousand Curves, which received the Editor’s Choice Award from Red Mountain Press, was published in April, 2021....
She Says We’re dreams walking in the world on the land of red skin red blood on the land of a civil war She says we will walk on...
It’s big enough already, longing distance, like the mind body problem, and like the mind-body problem, the stuff of mind and the stuff we mine is simply information, neither matter nor energy, the mind being software to the brain’s hardware.
I’m trying to imagine you imagining me/finding, at the bottom of a plastic storage bin—/under clippings from your Daily Camera column
It was good to fill the sinkhole myself after the landscaper/botched the job. Beneath the plant he poised, thirsty/on red clay—divots of emptiness. Ten bags of top soil go in/smelling of the deciduous north, released
Is it the flaw no one had noticed in the inlaid featherwork from which we can infer
Paul Klee once said, “He has found his style, when he cannot do otherwise.” There are poets whose language takes on this kind of inevitability, something Rilke called the “unconcealedness of being,” which shimmers on, star-like and unbidden, shouldering the pain of loss.
in Australia a recent production of Merchant of Venice changed the ending –/ what have I done?
All my registers say hush/A spider pushes each ounce of knowledge against the ground/Her hydraulic soldiers
this is how they work together in her mind/at a proper distance from each other