At the end of it, the wick is either cut too short or it’s so long, it falls on its side and can’t stand up, won’t light. And so much wax left, in the shape of what remains. This body… Read More ›
Autumn
Portrait of a subject reduced to a thread
The ticking of the clock, the rain drops, the same sound of the wood burning when it pops. There’s no sound like that on digital clocks. And at the traffic light we converge for a time: everyone looking down, in… Read More ›
The lake waves look like hands on the shore
Now the lake advances in creeping hands along the shore and the lifeguard chair is empty, there’s the threat of showers, the tree boughs move with the underwater look of deep-sea creatures in slow motion and the frog beneath our… Read More ›
Touched by autumn’s finger
A low pressure system came down from British Columbia, had us in a headlock all week, the house around 60 with the windows open in the morning, you could almost see your breath. I was out in the dark one… Read More ›
Reed College walk, Portland
Spooling around southeast Portland with my childhood friend Loren, the guys with beards pouring growlers and pints at the neighborhood bottle shop flipping records, preparing dishes with fresh oysters, grated horseradish, a bed of sea salt. Past the antique shops where… Read More ›
Chameleon, don’t paint yourself the color of perfection
It was very late August that summer we stopped in Portland on the way to the Redwoods and Loren made me some CD with early Pink Floyd I hadn’t heard, and I waited to play it until we left a… Read More ›
‘Tight framing of shots,’ 1974
It’s like I’m caught on flypaper, trying to leave the Scottish bar: they’re on to me, an American tourist here for a week, all of them asking questions. It starts with the old guy and his dog who’s sniffing my… Read More ›
Why the leaves fall
There is an old woman collecting leaves on the sidewalk No one notices what happens to all the leaves They are like days we sometimes save and they can be beautiful, and look like all the rest The days are… Read More ›
When night falls like this: life, in black and white
The streets are gray and everything on the edges has gone to brown, might be dead, hangs on waiting, like us. Looks dead, probably isn’t. I stare out the window at work and night has started at 4 o’clock. It… Read More ›
Song for autumn
A piece of fuzz in the air, a seed-bloom, a soul, will-o’-the-wisp leading me to uplit trees, quiet hillsides, hidden peaks. A voice, a dream, a memory, the sunset in autumn and softening light: Who can pretend the angle doesn’t affect… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 