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Jagged peaks slice through snow and ice at the South Pole, Antartica, August 1956.Photograph by Jack Fletcher, National Geographic

‘Pigeon feeding near Blue Mosque’, 1991, Steve McCurry

Bryan DerballaPortraits

friedrich von borries bathroom

Andara Sanches


he said
that when life got good,
the writing got bad, and when our lives got bad,
the writing got good.
so i look around, absorbing the streaks of red, and brown
antique collectives all around your house,
at displaced things that belong there
and me too, once.
i believed then
i should be so lucky
to finally get what i want
after years and years of
of obedience
of living in an endless daydream
of a free future, still too far on the horizon
mismatched and plucked off the earth,
his things stare at me
and i revert back to thirteen year old self,
when i thought i could never amount to anything worthwhile,
when i was sixteen,
when they flocked and exclaimed all around me,
and still endings remained my only confidant,
i see myself last winter, raggedy and unconditioned, 
smaller than the most withered sea-stone
belonging neither to the ebb nor tide
nor sand, in neutral reverie
ravaged by a tug of war, a civil war
daydreams only
of the ocean floor.


Christophe Jacrot

Elephants walking through a rain forest.

In this picture from the early 1940s, travelers in California’s San Joaquin Valley gather owl’s clover and blue lupine in a field along Route 99.

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last night i recited the last poem you wrote
over sweetened black coffee and us in the back
lingering below chain smoke. when i watch her,
she is beautiful. her cigarette thin as her frame, her backbones
jutting below the light fabric she is kind enough to share with me,
she is kind enough to share her home with me,
they are kind enough for loving me.

you wrote about clawing through your depressing like exploring caverns
that slip in sunlight, and i waited here,
crystalline, with grenadine spilling from my mouth
the sanguine color exclusive to love and loss
i spun, and i spun and i spunand i denote
i had nothing left to lose. so i gave myself away, to the days of
my own depression and the kindred tumult of my heart beating as it longs for you,
across an ocean and too many time zones away
i think, we are running on different schedules
and only that, only that- but- in my dreams i am running
past the nightmare your sister has, where she is by the banks with the hippos
and a vision of myself walking away from this appears
burning like a melting candle,
shedding all my skins for you.

i see distance, and i see forgotten dates and the enclosing lonely
all around us, i can taste it in the thickening air,
i tell my hands to stop longing, i tell my neck to stop craning, i tell my body to stop remembering and my eyes to stop pooling,
i erase all the traces of our bodies, shapeshifters, all of us
and  scramble naively to work ahead in hope
but i cant shake this poignant sensation, like blossoms come too early
and dying when awakened to winter. they remind me of myself,
standing ankle deep in the snow,
and on my back staring up into oblivon, or his tapestries above me
and i see that there’s no way to elude this haunting,
there’s no bargaining when it comes to ghosts.

who cares