I made a figure-four of my legs, and lay in bed longing for rest. This mattress, the same my mom and stepdad slept on for years. But after he died my mom moved to another room and the mattress remained… Read More ›
poem
Warrior 1
It can be enough actually, this: Just the angle of the day and you doing your best To cup a few handfuls of what it was like No different than wildflowers pressed in a book. Like the one in Scotland… Read More ›
Memento
I saved the lift ticket from that trip to the Alps, saved it because it was written in German with the date stamped on top I don’t know why I saved it, perhaps I thought there’d be a time I… Read More ›
Concourse A
Let me curl up with this book, Let me fold in on myself, Let me carve out a sliver of comfort in the corner Of this goddamned airport Oh to the sounds of the airport waiting to be somewhere else… Read More ›
On the drive to Soaring Eagle state park
The same old men walk the streets at the same time each day Through the fog and birdsong, the runners in their new sweats And the world for what they see is mainly gray, for they look inwards They walk… Read More ›
He not busy being born
Late May the grass by the pond’s grown tall where the frogs like to sing and screw and the song draws the dark down with the dew and we are all awash in it, spring! A medley of smells of… Read More ›
What a sad, lonely day when I walk through the park
and a young man cuts the grass on the trail up ahead all he does is pause to loosen a clump of wet grass but he makes a point to smile and wave as I pass yet one day I… Read More ›
The twos and threes
There is something about the twos and threes that gets mixed. One week ago is clear, two weeks is too, but now that I get to three I’m not sure, was it two weeks ago you left, or more? As… Read More ›
17th and Spring
Like so much folly and confetti the cherry blossoms are back and scattered in the grass, for it is May and spring and I am a young man living in a rental, just 26. There is a courtyard no one… Read More ›
Last visit to Prague
It was strange to be in Prague again wandering like a tourist down that cobblestone street past the church, the old clocks, the streetcar tracks. Strange to be with a friend I hadn’t seen for so long but stranger still… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 