Read the full poem What quality of iron flight tears the woven air of Camelot to strike the lonely room of Shalott? Blood blossoms on a bowman’s thumb long before the fletching leaves the string, due to the immense draw…
A question lodged in my mouth with the abrasive persistence of a burr caught inside a sock, and from that small irritation the whole inquiry drew its shape: when a yew bow sings, which vessel receives the hymn—the timber itself,…
I climbed the marble stair while a red weather gathered over my head, since Jacopo Foggini had wrapped the well in a suspended nuvola—a cloud with shadow sewn through it—and the stair rose as if the city itself breathed upward…