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O underneath. O tawdry sky at dusk, pink and orange fluorescent, loud rasp of cicadas in the maples—O feeling in my gut that ousts contentment. Earlier the air felt gentle, generous as Saturday. The morning air was an institute of migration: O blackbirds with your lost feathers pegged in the grass beneath your roosting trees, branches spackled with seeds and shit, all day you stream southeast, squabbling like tourists bound for some boon, some comedy or glory. O evening sky, flat... Read More

The Second Text

One ordinary morning I walked into the park past maples, elms, the ancient pines. Pigeons were davening, pious among the bushes. A few words fell from the Book of Nature (that other text written by the finger of God) their letters scattered along the path. The squirrels went rigid, seized by the spirit. Silence. A sudden shudder in everything— rocks, brown pond, creatures, the sky. I knelt to observe what letters I could. Words sprouted and grew from the world behind this world... Read More