Category Archives: Poetry

after John Koenig after The Dead Toreador, Édouard Manet, 1864 All the art in Seville is making our eyes bleed. We cannot bear the beauty of another palacio of a million mosaics, or the clatter of one more café. We … Continue reading →

It was June, in Allen Gardens, at Sherbourne and Gerrard. Night was coming. Dogs frolicked in the fountains. I heard the sound of sirens, and everything smelled warm and fecund, like semen. The tiny pale petals of the Callery pear … Continue reading →

You talk about Daniel, dancing. How he was beautiful and nonchalant, how he was slinking so close to the earth. How yet he was lifted, birdlike, transcendent, clawing for clouds with skinny hands. Shoulders low, hips slung slow. Fingers sprawled … Continue reading →

                        for Tommy Reyes Martinez 1. You step inside, out of the ruthless sun and into another world. Some raspy jazz on a victrola, of all things, and the upholstery is purple. A cacophony of teacups, and teacup dogs. A veritable … Continue reading →

When you were small, visiting the sea in South Carolina, just a few insouciant feet of boy, of brother, just nine, me twentysomething, you wandered off in search of crabs to fill your pail and found yourself alone at the … Continue reading →