The sand is a violence of many hands, the bus a trespasser scuttling across dank furrows. Fangs of arrowroots rise in speckles of sighs, match-boxes are lopsided love stories.

Sharp January Night

They have to, at this latitude, where fire and ice mix with no uncertainty, in rock and ash, in rupture and stillness. Deepening those October nights with a fire at hand


Endless blue: water speared by luminous scales of fish blue; shoreline women stating fashion, blue silk against brown skin; and the wiry blue line on the fishing reel: long-sleeve, thin white shirt, rod held swaying over water on a cobalt night.

Beyond a Town Tucked in the Alps

I have photos on old film of the rainforest in Borneo, the orangutans with their rusty fur suspended in trees, eating leaves and the spicy durian fruit that smells like custard and crushed garlic

Poetry Told by the Long Rain

Well into the early 1940s the star honked into the evening newspapers. The actor employing a repertoire, including poet, buffoon, and wandering Jew finally plays the peasant mutt submissive to the belly.

I Get By

Back in the practice room, our drinking space for the night, after I had another drink poured for me, I was taken aback to hear a loud Russian pop song come gurgling out of some desktop speakers.

The First Homo-Sapiens Migrate to Europe

They told stories walking up from jungles and dead-dry deserts into the great dense of Europe, deciduous green, earth beaten by unknown animals. No doubt, when the night cooled or the forest stretched into a plainless horizon, the oldest spoke of desert stars,