The grass is going brown already, but I won’t water it. I hadn’t laid on it yet, on my back with the dog in the sun, afternoon wine, nothing to do, nowhere to be. Like the August we went to… Read More ›
Poetry
The slant of the fence
You can walk the same road a hundred times and you still may not see the slant of the fence. The slant of the fence doesn’t matter. It’s the angle and the curve and the way the light catches it… 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 ›
The tip of your tongue
Art is just around the corner, just outside the edge of this song that’s on, now. Art is your nature, a prick of light on the skin of the dark that leads you somewhere warmer. Follow that.
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 ›
Going Back to Hell (2)
The plane pivots on its wheels, on the runway, like a cannon butt pointing south. At once we are in the air, lifted, and the sun makes a shadow of our plane on the clouds, a cartoon-plane, and the sun… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 