Acedia
All senses in oblivion drift away…
Earth ending, I went free,
left all my care behind.
—St. John of the Cross.
It is the feeling between my car and the front door,
when
Poetry
Chen’s Good Taste
I want to go back where I was always evenly drunk
in the ether of the womb, corded
like a cosmonaut to the ship of a body,
never growing hungry, or cold.
Instead,
Morning Sky
We couldn’t tell when it would happen.
The sky would tap
The windows, pink as fingertips.
An accident of clouds and light, as
Cold as thinning air.
It wasn’t anything
That
Winter Galaxies
The fence is molded along the cross beams. The owl is saying who. The sun has
just turned from half-circle to round. Amazing how slow that seems and then how
fast it actually
In Defense of War Poetry
Crimea. When the name appeared in the news last month, I suspect that it sounded
exotic but vaguely familiar to modern, Western ears. At first, it might have
sounded as if Russia was