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Timeexpand_moreI halt and watch a monk, under plum boughs, sweeping flitting shreds.
Those trees—each an epoch with its origin and history, rising into night.
I wear a gray sweater not unlike the one my father used to wear.
Isn’t it nice to think tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes yet?
Descent jumps and jostles, nausea drops me back to the floodplain.
The child at the rummage sale— more souvenirs than memories.
Hemorrhages, it was thought, do not appear for no reason.
The rings of Saturn flash their nothing yellows, nothing blues beautiful.
The roads have come to an end now, they don’t go any farther.
A wildness and all the ways I could never be classy enough for pearls.
The boys came down out of the woods and crossed toward the dock.
An eye trained only for darkness makes for a lesser path, in art as in life.
My students are in rows, alive—day-picked apples cut by teeth.
The new generation doesn’t play war, which is a shame; they text.
By the end of my trip to St. Thomas, I had discovered a reason to live.
The clock kept ticking, and the investors bailed out one by one.
When we move together in the dark I can almost get to him but I turn back.
The sun falls back and vanishes like the men in my family who’ve died.
What would you say about the driver of the truck that killed you?
Six-word stories about the the perplexities of love and desire.
Peter Taylor’s stories are jigsaw puzzles of nuance and suggestion.
The lock surrendered, after a short struggle, to the poker.
A family altar stuffed with dead family hanging now above the TV.
The voyage of the best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks.
It’s silly, I know, half-expecting to see Apollo playing lyre to a muse.
You put his hand around your throat but he keeps moving it away.
Eyes wide open, I offer myself to a new boy and watch him grow.
Never takes much, a fingertip’s touch, or beak-brush of prey-probing bird.
Snow on blue roof tiles—sleeping village awakened by waves.
This so far is a haunting, the bleeding heart we used to hear about.
