Issue 3: Minimalism vs. Maximalism
A Publication of the USF MFA in Writing Program







Black striated gull feather


on salt-white sand. So vivid, the line
between opacities.
Persnickety wind slips in. Thin as the skin of sky.
I get no closer than interruption.
Lips chap.
Red cypresses molt and crack.
Each presentiment, the same
paralysis.
The beach is cold. I breathe too hard. Extending fog,
its plausible form of nothing
apparently moving. But the chill
nearly crackling
the near into branch.





Fact defilement


make our habitual evidences vibrate until they disjoin
óMaurice Merleau-Ponty

No camouflage, though we crouch
speechless in dry-throated grass.
Our water-hours sealed in the dew of mornings past.
How we shiver, chilled in the underthought.
Yet we might ripple between resemblances.
Slip in through monotone,
washed clean of measure, of the haste
that wastes its mayhems.





Before generosity is possible, generosities
must be abandoned


Thereís no starlight to obscure
the inflammation of pure sky tonight.
I keep my fingernails cut close enough to follow change
with my fingertips.
Fog knows best how to test
our approximating line of intimacy.
The shiver that could be my start at life.
Find me.
In even this thick alpaca scarf.
Only later, construed your distance-filled glance
as lambent.
Because of the way Iíve arranged my selves
around it.
When I close my eyes, I see thereís no pattern for what
pattern interrupts.





Reconnoitering, which isnít avoiding,
generosity


Iíve never heard an abstraction and not
taken it personally.
I can widen what a misunderstanding might be called.
Is that a distancing strategy?
The desire for chocolate instead of conversation.
Havoc in the compromise.
Have I forgotten how to leach its sweetness?
Can I milk the roomís secrets with each blink of my eyes?
This too is desire.
We neednít be wily. The actualís urgency,
erased
by moving too fast.
The reflex
of biting my lip when I nod.
Which might make a stacking sound, if memory
kept the right thing.





Generosity, the sketchpad


How to see clouds out the window, not cotton. How to draw a line
that wonít domesticate the quietness of rain.
That is tempted to suggest dimension. Doesnít.
I have a few ordinary habits, like sucking air in through my teeth.
As if the taste of simply waiting wasnít worth something.
A darkness tonight, close beside us, impossible to sharpen to a point.
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