Listen to Barry Goldensohn read this poem. Everything looms at me. Hound's-tongue with wet doggy leaves and blue flowers starts up from the mist-streaked hillside. Standing by itself, framed in fog the live oak twists black arms above me, an embrace, free of the crown of leaves that hides the outlines of limbs in the crowded background view. The canyon and the next hill disappear. An owl on a low branch sits in its silhouette in the white flame of a wild cherry and a tiny wren weaves through the sagebrush, singing as it stops then flashes back in. Plunging into dense puffs and gusts of fog along the road a dying friend wheels and lunges from cliff wall to cliff edge in a bright yellow blouse and blue jeans joyous with losing herself and coming back in daily magic, you see me then you don't.
TODAY IN SLATE
Slate Plus Early Read: The Self-Made Man
The story of America’s most pliable, pernicious, irrepressible myth.
Rehtaeh Parsons Was the Most Famous Victim in Canada. Now, Journalists Can’t Even Say Her Name.
Mitt Romney May Be Weighing a 2016 Run. That Would Be a Big Mistake.
Amazing Photos From Hong Kong’s Umbrella Revolution
Transparent Is the Fall’s Only Great New Show
Rehtaeh Parsons Was the Most Famous Victim in Canada
Now, journalists can't even say her name.
Lena Dunham, the Book
More shtick than honesty in Not That Kind of Girl.