The surface cool. No movement but the feeling
Of movement—until one lurches, caught.
Two children in a snow cave laughing.
Or in leaves. The valley unfolding
In the middle distance, vineyard, sheaves, and
The one—where is it?—of the rock, the field.
Wood bulldozed down and somewhere in the rubble
(Dark, never to be discovered) the book
We hid between the rafters and forgot about. For years—
Cold air blowing off the water, empty shells.
Men casting lines and catching—who could tell
From distances like these? The night
We walked almost the whole length
Of the city. Or slept unharmed
Beneath a blanket of smoke. The one—who else
Would know?—of water indistinguishable
From sky, the room behind us, unmade bed
—A book of photographs where
TODAY IN SLATE
Don’t Expect Adrian Peterson to Go to Prison
In much of America, beating your children is perfectly legal.
Ken Burns on Why Teddy Roosevelt Would Never Get Elected in 2014
Cops Briefly Detain Django Unchained Actress Because They Thought She Was a Prostitute
Minimalist Cocktail Posters Make Mixing Drinks a Cinch
How the Apple Watch Will Annoy Us
A glowing screen attached to someone else’s wrist is shinier than all but the blingiest of jewels.
Rainbow Parties and Sex Bracelets
Where teenage sex rumors come from—and why they’re bad for parents and kids.
You Had to Be There
What we can learn from things that used to be funny.