Poetry

it ain’t a choir #82 as always there are two roads severing the art from the state or smothering the state with the art here put your hands here use your weight

Oh Mary, I suppose that God could have Borne Himself to us in some other way: Release His transcendence as glaciers calve Their ice; float like a dust mote into day; Just suddenly

Smell of resin and my musty clarinet case, my reed’s wood taste on my tongue as I assemble my inherited instrument: mouthpiece, barrel, body joints, bell. Behind me, brass section’s spittle

“ Be light made, and it was made.” — Gen. 1:3, Douay-Rheims Translation But we begin in the most literal dark, our faces not lit, for once, and not blued by the flickers of

A private collector requested endangered skin be stitched to a chair by the best hands in France. My nieces and I agree it’s not nice or pretty. The hartebeest, with humble tastes