We go to our graves with secondary affections,
Second-hand satisfaction, half-souled,
star charts demagnetized.
We go in our best suits. The birds are flying. Clouds pass.
Sure we’re cold and untouchable,
but we harbor no ill will.
No tooth tuned to resentment’s fork,
we’re out of here, and sweet meat.
Calligraphers of the disembodied, God’s word-wards,
What letters will we illuminate?
"Black Zodiac," Charles Wright
[Chicago Avenue east of Winchester Street]
- ► 2011 (107)
- ► 2010 (115)
- keep this coupon
- follow you home
- a perfect subject
- love an empty airport
- rarely-beloved a single star is uttered
- the shadow that everything casts
- it is this that the darkness is for!
- matter don't mind
- win winn
- second-hand satisfaction, half-souled
- no such place as brooklyn
- obituary, i like that word
- no one owns life
- a sense of what is not
- shame followed
- the greatest of these
- only a voice
- without grace
- One-three-hundredth of the Icelandic population
- the only sound that's left
- but now we cannot
- laughed inside her laughter
- some good in you
- ▼ May (29)