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“Picture books,” children call them—but they’re not just for children anymore. 

He found me browsing the poetry section of a bookstore.
I remembered his face from my last readings.

He found me browsing the poetry section of a bookstore.
I refused his leaflet. His voice became agitated and loud.

In synchronized swimming, one man’s bid to stay in the game.

Storm me.
Send 

me down into the dirt
& dark, raise 

me like thunder up.

On two occasions, during the preparation of this piece, people stopped me in cafés, pointing to the stack of Krasznahorkai’s books on my table, expressing their enthusiasm for his bleak comedy and particular brand of absurdity. The...

On the front porch he lit a cigarette, thinking he’d quit when the baby was born. His neighborhood of Newport appeared peaceful at night, the yards neatly aligned, illuminated by dim streetlights. A slight hum filled the air, its source...