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Poetry


Venus wounded by a rose’s thorn—Italian, 1500-1550
All day you are brilliant out of yourself resplendent. Now night coming there is a fold into which you fold curving...
De Kooning, Easter Monday
Bird-scream bustle you tangled arms and cars pushing and pulsing with dreams caught in your throats—gag— wait—is that a dagger I see...
Louise Nevelson, Mrs. N’s Palace
My house but the rooms are not mine. Here is where I sat to escape my death, here the mirror of the many faces. Each room says “where?”...
Judit Reigel, Guano (Menhir)
Follow the tracks the crows make the splintered blue imprints of trees in water. Impressed by pond scum leap over this into that green...
Rothko, Untitled, 1964
Muddy streambed lets in no light. The eye turns back into its den and sleeps.


Rodin, Rose Beuret (Mm. Rodin)
From far off a face in pain; up close, asleep dreaming of far-off pain.
Louise Nevelson, Magic Garden
When my face is erased I’m the pot and the snake And the moon dot. In each surface A soul is caught. Enraptured with captivity They lie...
Rodin, Le Baiser
She keeps a hand, secretly curled, to herself: curled back and away, but still part of the centripetal whirlwind.
Picabia, Declaration d’amour
Poised between fear and contentment a dark blindfolded joy is ensnared, pierced by needles of revolving light. Night crackles with silent...
Picasso, Portrait de Dora Maar 1937
I know this woman with sea green in her cheeks and red in her eyes. Many nights she sends her stare out into the burning air. She has no...
Picasso, Téte de femme souriante 1943
Having spent so long in this one grey attitude she forgets she ever had that other body, that woman body. She still smiles with all her...


Apeiron
Recall that in the desert pockets are there where the wind won’t go. It feels its way across places it must have felt yesterday but then...


An Intimation
I could not pass a patch of light upon the grass. I could not leave it be without it make some mark on me. What did I want with it? I...


After Celan
It is your thumb making its shadow felt marking where once you met and unmet the other, heard and unheard the breather in the pitch black...


Mourning Song
And there are times when I do not know trees for trees, when I do not know these fingers for my hand. Where are you, in what hanging...


To Desire
I’ve never been to Desire but I’ve heard the storm crying to come in sometimes battering even my heart sometimes making me laugh and...
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