Sam Riviere

Your voice was already inside,picturing winters to come with the confiding agentfrom the vantage of a summer evening –the small garden for a white cat to lie in,low-ceilinged rooms with slopes of snow or sun,a black, chuntering stove.                                   I saw obstacles at every...

In memoriam D.C. Berman

So he could be less pained, perusing his library of fleasas his antique gaze brushes everyone in the audience once – even you – placid, bland,then on to some untelegraphed point without,the jungle glow: a tremolo arm bent lagoonwards.His fingers, thick as bottlenecks,crowfooted like sofa leather,pinch fur, know bough and scruffbut never ash or...