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Jeffery Eugenides is the author of the novel The Virgin Suicides. His fiction has appeared in The New Yorker, The Paris Review, The Yale Review and Granta.
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January 19, 2022
Now that the little lies
accrue into the vast
incredulity, fear on fear
swells: a wave.
Slipping down the dune or
climbing? Who can tell?
The small cries, growing smaller,
fly past and vanish.
accrue into the vast
incredulity, fear on fear
swells: a wave.
Slipping down the dune or
climbing? Who can tell?
The small cries, growing smaller,
fly past and vanish.
January 12, 2022
The hope of non-sleepers is sleep, sleep is the food of all living presence, and time is the food of sleep. Time is a physiological condition, in addition to being a pit of holes. Sleep and wake are genres. Despite all appearances to the contrary, and notwithstanding dreams, sleep is a season. If you jump ahead, skip episodes of sleep, fragment the night, you lose the poetry of daytime. Daytime becomes a plot-driven slog; all it thinks about is sleep.
by Timothy Leo
January 5, 2022
The trees conspiring to create eternity again.
Our bodies with every tendon, sheath, and auricle
intending to grow old again. Breath finding wings,
lungs, skin. Hearts becoming rooms, again.
Our bodies with every tendon, sheath, and auricle
intending to grow old again. Breath finding wings,
lungs, skin. Hearts becoming rooms, again.
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