Poetry

I began reading A Bow From My Shadow—a new collection of poetry by Luke Irwin and Alex Miller Jr., available from Ecco Qua Press—in a car wash. The thud-slap-thud of the

is not heaving blocks of words from place to place the way a workman shoves slabs of concrete from here to there to build a wall. Instead it is a gentle lifting one

A few scratches of petroleum-based ink; swift motions of being and becoming – the weight, the thrust, on the shoulders sisyphean, of a name. 3Xs. Father, Son, H. Ghost. Top and middle and bottom

When we were 21, we all bought tickets to the French film festival downtown. An old woman yelled “Animal savages!” when we accidentally kicked her seat.

this breath the preacher said was like God no eye has seen it force the wintered stalks to bend and nod they remain blandly colored these unplanted muted but surely rooted stalks sounding