But though the lights
one by one extinguish
as you explore deeper,
that final light — the sun —
despite the coming winter,
the darkening seas.
— John Kinsella, from “Tenebrae
adjust the speed of the skin,
set the aperture of feeling,
draw sun sky and all into
that black old camera —
see through the back of your eye.
— John Kinsella, from “mimic: a blindman’s view of the sunset”
Asked about Marilyn
he shuffles uncomfortably — outside, in the
spaces between parrots & fruit trees,
the stubble rots & the day fails to sparkle.
— John Kinsella, from “Warhol at Wheatlands”
he went to his lover
and she comforted him —
in the palm of her hand
he was dust.
— John Kinsella, from “Fragments from a World without Water”
Some polluted places are so beautiful
they make you weep buckets…
— John Kinsella, from “some: an ode to the partitive article”
The rose, the cockatoo,
the failure of colour as whiteness
merges with sunlight.
— John Kinsella, from “a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose”