Listen to Alan Michael Parker reading this poem On my side I am a bicycle propped in bed,
gangly in the morning.
Down the hall, a neighbor's door whines and slams—
in the air clapped, a siren churns,
troubles the December gloom.
The souls of things
winter in little rooms:
inside the spoon, a flute's undone;
inside the lamp, the filament
waits to flower, sing.
A bee dozes in the current,
an idea in a piece of string—
all thing, I lean away
from the hour, back to where I've been,
one wheel spun.
TODAY IN SLATE
One of the most amazing feats in chess history just happened, and no one noticed.
The Extraordinary Amicus Brief That Attempts to Explain the Wu-Tang Clan to the Supreme Court Justices
Amazon Is Officially a Gadget Company. Here Are Its Six New Devices.
Do the Celebrities Whose Nude Photos Were Stolen Have a Case Against Apple?
The NFL Explains How It Sees “the Role of the Female”
Amazon Is Now a Gadget Company
How to Order Chinese Food
First, stop thinking of it as “Chinese food.”