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July 16, 2019
She wanders aimlessly through age, age
being a nutrient that washes from the cliff face
into the soil.

Absence a rhythm in the daily round, rows
carved into furrows in the ground or the folds
of the robe, not planted with seed.
July 9, 2019
He has already, over the course of months, designed his own sanctuary, his own adventure. It has yet to be built, but it will be an ordinary house, except for the cellar, where a secret tunnel leads far away into deep woods, to his real home, enormous and impregnable and peopled by machines to take care of all his needs.
July 2, 2019
We sipped a fumé blanc, much too good for us. Elsa, quite content with a weak strain of iced tea, happy to be here at all. We had not known from lively e-mails and upbeat telephone chats that her persistent cough had taken a turn to the prospect of dying.
June 25, 2019
In the language of carbon wealth I sang myself into shape. May the pieces fall in accordance with natural law, I thought, and the world will slide into place. Complicity was as capital in the vernacular of the times, so my counsel sold to blight-ridden conifers desperate to restart life.
June 18, 2019
After Giantess declared her love, and conditions were set by Moon—build me a silver body, attire me, hinder my roll through space to attach the silvery limbs
—the two outliers danced until lightfall, where, on Venus, each day is longer than an Earth’s year. And dance on and on they did.
June 11, 2019
“I wanted ours to be a perfect
union,” he tells us at the table in the back, candle out.

“I wanted every desire to be balanced, exactly,
by generosity. And stasis to be a form

of flight. But I was yammering
in my sleep.
June 4, 2019
After Rosmarie Waldrop
Sometimes I see a transparent profile, shadow-self with its thready tendrils turning to face the absence of a face framed by the window opposite. Selflessness is a complicated structure in that it doesn’t exist. The speaker ever-hovers just outside the door, listening. She went whichaway, grinding her teeth to shadow.
May 28, 2019
I have in common with old window glass
a pleasant warping
of whatever forces through

In this sickly light the defanged
dogs slurp their sludges. I intone as taught
“Here no mystery is”
May 21, 2019
An Excerpt from Trafik
AM Locus has a fabricated atmosphere, humid and breathable, unexpectedly dense in the organic compounds of living things once there in profusion, but now long gone. Of the landscape, all that remains are deep creases and ridges gyring in all directions, with barely a trace of biological activity.
May 16, 2019
A Selected Text from Conjunctions:72, Nocturnals
In agitation along sleep’s surface

dreams the monster, the angular, the slimy, the anything goes, the corpse

who strokes the tigers with rather weak jaws

in a jump cut, on an icy blue couch, red queen

on mute––
May 14, 2019
Though no one is watching, an opening in the hedges reveals a gap where entry is possible.
Inside, an entity multiplies, but how can I know this. The broodself is invisible and smells like
before, which is the only way to know that it happened. It crawls out in unknown ways on
unknown legs, identical because there is no other form or sound.
May 9, 2019
A Selected Text from Conjunctions:72, Nocturnals
What they had in common was they were smokers; everyone was a smoker then. Those three, though, they smoked to live. Cigarettes! There the cigarette would be, raised to the lips. The lips opening, only a little. The smoke drifting across the roof of the mouth. The lungs filling—this is how they recognized one another, in the green sea, green as grass, by streams of water green as glass.
May 7, 2019
An Excerpt from The Color Inside a Melon
Here at the top of an abandoned palazzo, they’d set up a club for the night. Risto’s assailant was one of the bouncers. Up here, at penthouse level, the building had only two apartments, and now Risto found himself pinned against the railing of a terrazzo, and the rawboned creep who held him, just five, ten minutes earlier, had stood collecting the cover charge outside the apartment door.
May 2, 2019
A Selected Text from Conjunctions:72, Nocturnals
Even though I knew that this was impossible—even though I recognized, in my rational mind, my waking or my daylight mind, that the shopping carts had to have been gathered from a grocery store this century—I could not shake the impression of a far architect, or fathom any contemporary consciousness that could have constructed this.
April 25, 2019
A Selected Text from Conjunctions:72, Nocturnals
Two months into my time as Fred and Elsie’s ghost, they wake up in the middle of the night to find me at the kitchen table, staring at the Ouija board unfolded over the unfinished pine. I didn’t mean to be staring at the board when they came down the stairs. I’d snuck down after they’d gone to bed to skim from their leftovers and it was already there, waiting.
April 23, 2019
Reproducing the Unknowable
Our wombs are for many of us unknowable until inhabited, made knowable by the inside taps at the doors and walls of our bodies, our centers of gravity shifted, our balance of weight and even of power redistributed, disturbed, sleep-deprived, and pushed up against furniture we used to slide easily by.
April 18, 2019
A Selected Text from Conjunctions:72, Nocturnals
The first time I crossed the equator, I stopped for a photo. People usually do. I had come to work in a small clinic in a coffee-farming village in southwestern Uganda, just to the south of the world’s belt. I grew up in the midlatitudes: long summer days and long winter nights, the swing of light and dark like a rocking hammock. I thought of the equator as a human idea—a line on a spinning globe. Its tyranny was a shock.
April 16, 2019
In the first dream, the dog is disguised as a cat.

In the second dream, when I pet him, the dog turns into chocolate.

In the third dream, the dog is a ball of dirty yarn which I scoop up
and lay over my chest to muffle the sound of my rapidly beating heart.
April 2, 2019
Jing Street, where I live, is a long, narrow street with many coffee shops and teahouses. Sitting in my third-floor study, I can see inside the “Island” coffee shop across the street. This small shop does a good business; it’s almost always packed. I frequent this shop, too. I secretly call Hoh Dao, its owner, “Mr. Perfect.”
March 26, 2019
Keller,

We don’t know each other. Not well. I’ve seen you in your rental body, standing at the windows beyond the cubicles, looking out at the wheat fields. I’ve seen you in the fifth-floor steams. We sat so close that my breath mixed with yours in the wet air. In the lap pool, too, the waves that rippled from my breaststroke rippled over your skin.
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Monday, October 28, 2019
2:30 pm – 3:30 pm