Beginning of November by Franz Wright The light is winter light. You’ve already felt it before you can open your eyes, and now it’s too late to prepare yourself for this gray originless sorrow that’s filling the room. It’s not winter. The light is winter light, and you’re alone. At last you get […]
MoreUntitled by Franz Wright If I think I have problems I look in the mirror; I go to the window, or ponder the future reduced to more or less three pounds of haunted meat. And it’s never like I always said: if you don’t want something wish for it . . . Lost […]
MoreInterim by Ruth Stone Like the radiator that sits in the kitchen passing gas; like the mop with its head on the floor, weeping; or the poinsettia that pretends its leaves are flowers; the cheap paint peels off the steamed walls. When you have nothing to say, the sadness of things speaks for […]
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