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First the prisoner and his interrogation. Of my final mission into their territory, more later. Beyond our village the highway crosses a narrow bridge of concrete, and then in a gorge of stone goes north. 

The 2015 VQR Writers’ Conference takes place August 12–16 in Charlottesville, Virginia. Designed for serious writers at all stages of their careers, the conference also includes panels and readings that are open to the public—featuring...

The first wife floats in memory calmly
who formerly was storm-tossed, who gave
at the edges a whitewash to those rocks

of myself, begging your pardon, as a young man,
quick to draw arms, quick
to take a fence for daggers toward my
heart, 

I give the black pit dream’s head,
not fearing to hit bottom, to the water
I offer my head like a stone,

The death of the father is my shepherd,
me maketh me three versions of wanting.

We have known such joy as a child knows.
My sons, in whom everything rests,
know that there were those who were deeply
in love, 

I’m in a phone booth in Saratoga Springs.
The water tastes awful, but very helpful.
You aren’t answering, whatever I’m asking.