Listen to Christian Wiman reading this poem. A town so flat a grave's a hill, A dusk the color of beer. A row of schooldesks shadows fill, A row of houses near.
A courthouse spreading to its lawn,
A bank clock's lingering heat.
A gleam of storefronts not quite gone,
A courthouse in the street.
A different element, almost,
A dry creek brimming black.
A light to lure the darkness close,
A light to keep it back.
A time so still a heart's a sound,
A moon the color of skin.
A pumpjack bowing to the ground,
Again, again, again.
TODAY IN SLATE
False rape accusations exist, and they are a serious problem.
Scotland Is Just the Beginning. Expect More Political Earthquakes in Europe.
I Bought the Huge iPhone. I’m Already Thinking of Returning It.
The Music Industry Is Ignoring Some of the Best Black Women Singing R&B
How Will You Carry Around Your Huge New iPhone? Apple Pants!
The Most Terrifying Thing About Ebola
The disease threatens humanity by preying on humanity.
The Other Huxtable Effect
Thirty years ago, The Cosby Show gave us one of TV’s great feminists.