You bought yourself a low-cost house for only forty thou’.Then lost it in a city fire; they burn so often now.
It’s normal to do it alone, the feint-and-jab of forgetting. I believe in only what I can recite
from memory, like the ninety-nine names for thirst: soft-hell, root-torn-from-soil, rain-
i.m. Greg Greger (1923–2015)
I. West of Chekhov
A month since Father died. Back in our old house, sisters, where were we? Desert of childhood, great preserver,
for you we opened another closet.Father the farm boy––what didn’t he...
Africanus has a million bucks, and still he wants and wants and wants.
Do I have to talk about fear? So much has already been said about hidden spiders, compass needleslodged in the soft of an eye.
the bloodshot eye cannot swallow any more red sunset rose after sunset rose in the mouth of the field godless
Train on the railsMoon buttonholes the skyThe sorrow, the sailsYour hand, my thigh.
Moon buttonholes the skyLines trail airplanesYour hand, my thighDoors close again.
is fragile as speech in answer when you ask me please go light the fire in the drum
Turn out the light and I’ll explain. —James Fenton
It’s where I’m headingIt’s what I overheardThe lines in the cornerThe flaming word.
It’s what you expectedYour greatest fearA chip in the teacupBills from last year.
truth is the enemy it’s over the best part about terror is territory together we opened the border