We are several hours away in the hills, the desert steppe, a friend’s cabin, down a dead end road that leads to a lake, a quarry, so quiet you can hear the gravel on the shoulder when we pull over… Read More ›
poem
Moon song for März
The moon is yellow and full and low in the sky and the sky no longer drops now, it’s a slow fade to dusk. I walk the lake road and a car comes round the bend and with the swoosh… Read More ›
You can see why they thought they were spirits
What started off clear became obscured by the cloud’s thickening brow. The night passed on to dawn, this time we contemplate the dead. And we pass down a darkened lane to the end, past the signs and arrows carved in the… 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 ›
Retreat, to the dark
The backbone of a cottonwood on the clouds, a fossil through my window — The nail of the moon, cupping the weight of the sky, low-lidded demon, jeweled crown. Hands sticking out of trees, green hands and fingers, quiet hillsides… Read More ›
White pigment
A frog makes a corkscrew croak, keeps warm, sings A friend’s mix tape in the garage, where men go, to hide A picture of a writer on a rocker with a notepad and pen, threads pulled from his pocket, he… Read More ›
Song for winter
The ocean pounds the rocks and the sky’s gone to slate, and it’s the sound of lovers dashed to pieces, in the mist: and it’s all we ever wanted, to disappear to the roar of the applause and go back… Read More ›
Love binds you in sleep
I saw your face through the frame of a dream I put it together from memory, like a snowman: The eyes, nose, smile I said I love you and looked back for a reaction, To see if it was real… Read More ›
Song for madness, ode to moon
The halo around the moon is the son of madness who follows a cold light who sits inside shadows haunted by sounds — a footstep, a figure, a face… who’s fallen for his own reflection, has nothing but himself and… 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 