Tag Archives: Marie Landau

Each week the leaves eke their almond shape. Thumbprint of red spreads over a shade of green summer dreams as it sleeps in snowfall. How does the desert get so alive? Joshua trees wave their white hands in Southern California … Continue reading →

Little clicks             a dream                   reel spins    its film—the wet black brown your eyes turned         click          your sallow hands       click          the slack skin       click          over angles of bone Long shot: a panorama             your bed                         the great blue heron                                  you adored … Continue reading →

A white bird’s robust breast, split head of the smiling antelope— meat marching into a knife’s edge— red cleaved with light I run like the antelope before its head was split, smiling, lift my legs as if each muscle was … Continue reading →