All the details of the world when you’re really in it. The guy at the gas station wheeling in the delivery, the small, waking patterns along the seam of morning, how the mind spins and shakes and follows whatever flickers… Read More ›
William Pearse writer
Snow-covered mineshaft grate
I took the 900 around the back side of Cougar Mountain, but it doesn’t get much direct light this time of year and the road was icy in early morning, with snow on the trees still—and when Ginger and I… Read More ›
‘Time is on my side’
It was the first spring we were in our new house mom and John came to visit. I had some time off from work and it was only May, but the weather forecast was like summer, with everything in bloom,… Read More ›
The January moon will never be full again
Cruel slant of a moon that could be a fang or a hook, a nail, or a cat’s claw stuck to the sky, pulling it down gloating, feeding until it’s full— but the moon looks empty, full like it wants… Read More ›
The day we thought we died
It was the first time I started my morning ritual but then stopped and just went back to bed. I got the coffee going, fed the animals, but it was still dark outside so I lay in bed another 20… Read More ›
“Found”
In the darkest places of rest the mind finds what’s left in our pockets whether we wanted it found or forgotten.
By the time we got to New Year’s
It was cold enough we could use the garage as an overflow for the fridge and I went out there splitting wood, breaking down boxes, consolidating the remains of Christmas pasts and presents—and even though we said we wouldn’t, we… Read More ›
Poem for Bukowski on horses, days, the rain
The days ran down the side of the hill the way the rain can, how you don’t notice it’s worn down the surface until it slides right off. Inspired by the title of a Bukowski poetry collection, The Days Run… Read More ›
Meditation on a nameless day
Climbing mountains you get high enough you can see above the cloud deck, the tips of the other peaks coming through, how the clouds look like soup from above, and in every direction just the land stretching out, no cities—like… Read More ›
On Tuesdays they come for the recycling
Then the clouds came down so low they flattened the trees and the rain thickened, the drains backed up, the only color from the dead leaves hanging on like rust, the rest of it graphite gray: and the grocery store… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 