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
The Ebola Story
How our minds build narratives out of disaster.
The Budget Disaster That Completely Sabotaged the WHO’s Response to Ebola
PowerPoint Is the Worst, and Now It’s the Latest Way to Hack Into Your Computer
The Shooting Tragedies That Forged Canada’s Gun Politics
A Highly Unscientific Ranking of Crazy-Old German Beers
Welcome to 13th Grade!
Some high schools are offering a fifth year. That’s a great idea.
The Actual World
“Mount Thoreau” and the naming of things in the wilderness.