The earth leans into the sun like a chicken on a rotisserie, like a pig on a spit. Most of what I think or write I keep to myself, which is probably best. I thought that up on my morning… Read More ›
Poetry
This life is a jacket we’ll take off soon
I pulled a Walt Whitman, tripping-out on my back in the grass, with ants crawling up my arms and neck, my ears full of birdsong and dogs barking, something flying by and stopping on my head, plastered to the earth… Read More ›
The bright, dark sounds of The Red House Painters
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 ›
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.
Bill Pearse 