Listen to Lucie Brock-Broido reading this poem.
Sorrows, like a gathering of dire wolves, come in packs. To you,
I am not speaking anymore. Whom
Shall I address?
Now that you have gotten these things off
Your barrel chest, it is time for you to merge into the sobbing
Rain, like a one-room scene in Appalachia, smeared
By fog. I adored you as much as an aluminum
Bucket of storm after
A great unlovely silvered thirst. How
Nice for me. In the Pleistocene, the wild wolves roamed
In scattered sorrows over
Everywhere, prodigious in appetite, howling
At the hollow of
Everything empty like a throat coated
With the fabric of a bolt
Of red. There
TODAY IN SLATE
The Irritating Confidante
John Dickerson on Ben Bradlee’s fascinating relationship with John F. Kennedy.
My Father Invented Social Networking at a Girls’ Reform School in the 1930s
Renée Zellweger’s New Face Is Too Real
Sleater-Kinney Was Once America’s Best Rock Band
Can it be again?
The All The President’s Men Scene That Captured Ben Bradlee
Is It Better to Be a Hero Like Batman?
Or an altruist like Bruce Wayne?
Driving in Circles
The autonomous Google car may never actually happen.