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Personal Essay

42nd Street Shuttle

March 22, 2014 • 0
A man fell on the subway today. I was watching people slip through the metal doors connecting our car to the next, this door then that door sliding open, and shut, bouncing on the mechanism, open, and shut, when a woman said, “Oh…” Everyone turned to see him sprawled across the gap between our train »
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Personal Essay

Between the Objects of the World

November 7, 2013 • 1
Mid-September. The Litchfield Turnpike is taking me north, past the last overpasses and traffic lights of the suburban world. North, to Bethany. Up here, there are no sidewalks, no curbs. Without its concrete frills, “the road” is just a slab of asphalt in the woods, a sludgy, petrified thing, so unlike the forest floor beneath »
Poetry

First Words

September 8, 2013 • 0
The first words of this poem are the and first, and then—words, and that is all there is.   A palm reflecting sunlight toward the cheek.   The ability to laugh at weakness.   To dry a rose in a desk-top vase day by day by day.   A clock glimpsed in a dream or »
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Personal Essay

From the Forge

September 8, 2013 • 0
Nothing prepares you to handle a pickaxe for the first time. You don’t anticipate the heft of it, the welt of solid iron, the brutishness of the shape. The name becomes scrutable: A pick, because that’s what it does. An axe, because it’s built like one and because you swing it. The function of a »
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Personal Essay

Awake

April 7, 2013 • 3642
February 2, 2013  This begins in the graveyard, which, today, is actually a cheery place. It’s Saturday. It’s sunny. It’s warm for February. There are birds chattering in the trees that are everywhere. Two friends and I are here to read and lie on the grass, to shed the week’s noise. We walk along the »
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