Bit by bit he watched all the iPods, phones, and tablets come back ashore, come back to the store with their cords and their cases, and he put them in a box in the back to be picked up on… Read More ›
poem
Birth rights
Perhaps it was on that day I was very small, I decided what I wanted to be. There was a small satisfaction in that, a place to sit and fit. And we all need that. I remember they were happy… Read More ›
Down the end of Clay Pit road
Matted down forest floor, now the leaves have lost their shape and rotting with the rest, the color wicked out no longer distinct, not worth saving in a book. Gray light in the forest, the branches the color of bone,… Read More ›
The must of memories trapped in jackets
The smell of the book is the same as memories musty, vague— its only distinction is in itself how it sits there unattended: different memories, different books, all smell the same.
A bath one Saturday night
I hadn’t taken a bath in more than a year, never time for a bath, always something else but when you look at the bath when you’re buying the house, the bath seems like such a good idea and it was… Read More ›
On the dead
Every other Saturday the gardeners come, but I will never know all their names. They are in the back now blowing out leaves, tearing out the dead, raking up beds, making it all go away— But the next morning the… Read More ›
Life lessons from dreaming dogs
The dog in her sleep quivered, you would have thought she was dead she looked so still – some replayed scene imagined to make her believe she was somewhere else, living.
Mid-autumn morning
Sun blotted to a smudge, that’s all. No wind, only jets, frogs, clocks: barely a sound when the last leaf falls.
This is all we have, right now
Sometimes it’s hard to believe you’re gone, the way you half-smiled the same as me — the last time we talked on the phone I remember, your stories about the time you were in London too. Maybe every moment is… Read More ›
Some imagine oblivion
Bruised, angry clouds blown from the snouts of beasts with wings, horns and flames, poet plumes made the sky look alive today.
Bill Pearse 