The Photographer

I have no idea why I took that picture. It’s not very clear and the glare from the flash is prominent, a powerful circle of light just up from the center of the shot. I exist in the photo as a glazed image, an echo neatly sliced by windowpanes. You can’t see anything through the glass except for the curtains. The white cloth is separated and the room that would open up behind it is not visible. The flash of light has turned a clear pane reflective and it takes

On My Love of Rilke…

Rilke can utterly undo me. He has the ability to help me clear my mind — trust me this is no easy task. I don’t know if it is the sensual imagery, the stark mysticism, the rigorous language, or all three. I suspect it is all three… The Book of Hours, I, 17 She who reconciles the ill-matched threads of her life, and weaves them gratefully into a single cloth— it’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hall and clears it for a different celebration where the one guest

the phone rings

and you ask the person on the other end to repeat what they just said because it doesn’t make sense and suddenly you are aware of every detail around you and you realize that time has slowed down to let words sink in and you hear yourself asking questions that have answers you don’t want to hear –but that wasn’t the point of the questions, because the point of the questions was to demonstrate to the person on the other end of the phone that they had bad