"Surface" by Jorie Graham.

It has a hole in it. Not only where I

concentrate.

The river still ribboning, twisting up,

into its re-

arrangements, chill enlightenments, tight-knotted

quickenings

and loosenings--whispered messages dissolving

the messengers--

the river still glinting-up into its handfuls, heapings.

glassy

forgettings under the river of

my attention--

and the river of my attention laying itself down--

bending,

reassembling--over the quick leaving-offs and windy

obstacles--

and the surface rippling under the wind's attention--

rippling over the accumulations, the slowed-down drifting

permanences

of the cold

bed.

I say iridescent and I look down.

The leaves very still as they are carried.

untitled

Dart the skins

Again it rang, again the rocks

This little un-person sang

quietly to herself.

A Dry Scene

There was no end to this town, as they stood peering in it. “Too much word play in this script” was the whispered sound from behind the gaffer’s post. That post was well lit, at least. We bought this town, for this film, and can do what we will, was the thought animating the gunman’s eyes.

Those eyes which had seemed dead until this scene. Well, “dead,” he knew, was just a reassuring play of light on a lens. There was a windswept valley, and ridges dark behind that. And some silhouette, maybe an antagonist.

This death scene ran too long; on that they could all agree.