Online Exclusives

In my collection of gluons whose color adds up
to white:

a time the universe

was the size of a darkening
string [...]

Everything swims up into its eyes. Its agility, its strength, its swiftness: These qualities soften though they do not lessen as they rise. [...]

The news is always of rapture

A plume of dust, the raking of ashes [...]

Your mind unkinks itself like carded wool
as one foot steps in front of the other, circling
the five-foot figure-eight infinity loop [...]

and off the mark meadows tipped in in green, which should serve as a pattern here for figures, but the landscape doesn’t know anything, just talk to it, though, and it’ll give in at once. as always [...]

there are so many places to find you   in the endless   white spaces you have left us [...]

A memorial tribute was held May 6, 1999, for the late William Gaddis, the esteemed novelist who died in December 1998. [...]

Story time done but plenty left over, riches of fishes and fancy comestibles heaped on the table within; a toast, friends, to the slow servant! No master for me. One of the oldest professions, mine, and right honorable, too. [...]

Which it watches, where it waits
In cleft or cavern or crevasse
In dolmen or diluvial boulder-hoard
Not the fissure, not the fosse, a flaw [...]

Congealed, concertinaed version of “I bet he’s had it,” meaning he has come to grief. [...]

Think of our silhouettes lengthening across the bare stage, the creak of the wooden boards beneath our feet, the broken spotlights of gray glass, the dizziness as he twirled me erasing the curtains from my sight, his muscled legs folded in bunched trousers, the actors gone home. [...]

                         Will you
                                      not come again?
                          I will go—
there soon.
                          Will you
                                      not come again?
                          I will cross—
the river twice [...]

My father screamed whenever the phone rang.

My aunt often screamed when she opened the door. [...]

One, two, three, four … strung in a seaward-running necklace each foghorn sounded progressively more distant, a warning that here an island lay. [...]

They are said to be in the book,
           but there is no book. [...]