The poet is a collector of small things who says Here, and holds out her hand with something found on a walk. It’s a leaf that could be a flame it’s so red, or a piece of wood that looks… Read More ›
Poetry
Beach became sky
This morning the sky’s gutted and fanned out like the beach, the clouds ocean foam, the stars peaking out through the sand, surprised to find themselves with the left-behind junk of man and the creatures and the saltwater pods stirring… Read More ›
The ambivalence of airports
Airports are soul-suckers, They take on the life of their subjects but have none of their own. No one goes to the airport to be at the airport, but airports are necessary like doctors’ offices and hospitals: We all pass… Read More ›
The weight of space in the eyes
Crow wings beat hard to keep themselves up They hop, squawk, strut Never once complain. We call them death: Their eyes the color of space Cold, dark, the wisdom of the infinite confined to a frame. Maybe there’s no warmth… Read More ›
Poems come like children
They are small things full of wonder that take a long time to produce — They don’t act the way you expect, but may be your best expression Fragile, strong, willful, watching: Your future, your past wrapped in a wish… Read More ›
Clouds meet like lovers
You can see the inevitable setup as they start from opposite ends: These two, sure to meet amid the others, drawn together by some force either atmosphere or fate Slow-motion as they touch, a gradual loss of each other once… Read More ›
Maps are approximations
Man sketches Earth: Earth bears us up, draws us down Man gives names to things, to own: “Elliot Bay.” “Mercer Island.” The land and the water meet where the people come, But the land needs no name.
Song for summer
The morning is damp Constellation of birdsong Punctuation by frog, by crow The Earth bends on itself and we grab hold: our feet to the sky, hair to the ground, stomachs in our chest There is surf, seagulls, the sound… Read More ›
The sun took my eyes and put them on the moon
The face on the moon is a mask, a caricature, a serial killer, no different than mine: it always looks sad, alone, surprised to find itself so far out there on its own.
Chasing butterflies
Broken down shed at dusk, looking west. The birds light up the trees and the sky goes pink. I could take a picture now with my phone but it would just be a postcard, and say nothing of my time… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 