Plenty of dented signs on the highway. Igloo photographs in the drawers on the left. I don’t know where the antidote is kept. Nobody came

The fog again –it hangs late this year,whitening the airthe way snow whitens the ground.Separating the city,it makes neighbours invisible,softening and dulling all of life.

The first flurries are falling,falling slowly. In the dark of morning,I reached into my shadow closetand plucked my wool sweater,the old one, with snowflakes. It

Sitting at the end of a lakeside dock,with solid cedar boards below my chairbut ever-flowing water underneath,I saw a cumulus cloud toweringlike a holy city

Those who look to you are radiant Sometimes I make the mistake of beingtoo corporeal-minded forgetting we’re predominantly made of lightmissing how like the moon’s

“On December 10, 1968, Thomas Merton, a Trappist monk and perhaps the most popular AmericanCatholic writer in history, stepped out of a bathroom shower during

Too lotsthese lights. Batscan’t do their gnat trickbit. Too coursethese foods, too bruisedthe fruit, blacked the viewToo fierce these fuedsToo true: all sinned,too sinned, all,

That time keeps onslippingslippingslippinginto the futureisn’t true,strictly speaking. It slips past, if anything,like a train.It also slipsinto the past as ifthe past were a bogcapable

And what did they write with their iron styli,what complaints carve into his scholar skinby order of the Emperor; by assignmentand timely, stab with their