Three Poems for a Late Migration
Three short poems written across one unusually warm autumn, tracking a migration that kept not arriving on schedule.
Three short poems written across one unusually warm autumn, tracking a migration that kept not arriving on schedule.
A review of Ilse Kovac's new novel about three sisters who inherit a house that keeps rearranging itself.
A poem in six parts about packing a car before dawn and what gets left behind on the porch.
A phone in every pocket has made genuine, unbothered lostness almost impossible to find, which is a smaller loss than it sounds and a real one anyway.
Cartographer Noor Aziz on thirty years spent redrawing the same coastline, and why a finished map is a kind of lie.
A single long poem set entirely inside a regional airport after the last commercial flight has left for the night.
On the readers, forgers, and obsessives who left their handwriting in the margins of secondhand books.
He works his hives bare-handed and bare-faced, and insists the veil is less protective than the stillness it usually replaces.
A review of the festival favorite "Low Tide," a two-hour film about a family that mostly just waits for the ferry.
Two poems, each written in the time it takes to stand at the edge of a field and actually look at it, rather than simply pass by.
A former limestone quarry, now the town swimming hole, holds its history in rings almost no one has learned to read.
The strip mall is the most honest building type we have produced in a century - it promises nothing it does not deliver, which may be why we cannot forgive it.