A gravely ill man was waiting for me in a village ten miles distant.
It’s so delicate, the light. And there’s so little of it. The dark is huge.
He ended every year in this manner, writing and dreaming.
She is very rich. She will leave me everything when she dies, he says.
After breakfast I set out to see what my wild neighbors have been up to.
When he was a child, my father had a cousin who was buried by a plow.
The animals are dying. All the beautiful women are dying too.
Snows piling in his crying mouth. Cold gave him a light complexion.
I fell asleep wondering to whom the tree might have been writing.
It was like a scene in a movie; it didn’t seem real. The man kicked her.
People only see that side of him. He is still a boy, learning to be a man.
Eszter Marosszeky and David Matheson
Floods of faces, no sign of a pathway toward Bethlehem, shut off by blizzard.
Frail as a breath, it broke at once, leaving a tiny kiss in my fingers.
It’s been months since the cat died and still we find her hair.
The streets were filled with couples and families on their way home.
They say it is the soul that rises, not the body. But the body does rise—
The light, returning, nudged me from sleep, and walked me to dinner.
“I wonder what will stay longer,” Frick said. “Me or that headstone.”
Grass grows, birds fly, waves pound the sand. I beat people up.
It was only a matter of time before the damp of loss grew within us like moss.
Our cocoa is gone and our dreams are being eaten by mice.
Gerard sat in the shadow, watching his son steal about like a thief.
What I want is a woman who knows all the meanings of indulgence.
His chest was sweaty and his T-shirt stuck to it, bleeding black.
That cold green streak morning had nothing in common with us.
Somewhere along the way her husband had gotten scared.
I’m just wired hard for hunting, and not so much at all for fishing.
The child writes, Child, and is amazed at this word on the page.
Whitman may just mean: it is pretty cold, but there’s always colder.