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Tag Archives: G. F. Boyer
End-of-summer dust vibrates in the chicken coop, chickens long since replaced by dolls. Whitewash on my fingers, feathers stuck in wire mesh. Years later, still that smell. . . . Another dream of water. Which remains whole through every division. … Continue reading
Cold spring, moldy summer, chill fall. You upstairs in your sorry bed, ruminant. No fight left in me, no hay for the goats. The field pounded dry year after year, a stone acre. Let go. Let me be gone. Nothing … Continue reading
“…a bird of the air shall carry the voice” —Ecclesiastes 10:20 In the curves of a transatlantic cable, sea anemones shelter. Pigeons roost beneath a freeway bridge, asleep to the overhead rumble. I’ll accommodate too, grow used to silent evenings, … Continue reading
You scratch your feet for hours, coaxing shy blood. Blisters map your progress from ankle to instep to toe. Branches of a diseased elm at the night window. . . . They tuck you into a steel sleeping bag, ease … Continue reading
Discontent with the crumbs of your lover’s table, I inspect pine needles. Once a cylinder, these have split lengthwise into three parts. That’s how bayonets are made, you say. The wound is triangular and doesn’t heal easily. What are we? … Continue reading