.......... … a litel thyng …
The prose of merchants, the prose of ministers,
Pornographers' prose, the prose of Julius Caesar—
Every militant word. Executioners' prose, inspectors' prose,
The dreamy calculation of love letters,
Attorneys' prose, morticians' prose,
The coded prose of spies. One ice storm,
Years back, scribbled its thesis on Ohio.
In another, my father, still alive, incised my name
Backward in rime on the kitchen window.
He stood outside in the world, ice in his eyebrows,
Breathing. My neighbor has no dog run.
My father built one for his brace of English pointers
Who howled their misery in doggy paragraphs
As the storm revised them. I was old enough to read
Three words, and he'd just scraped one of them
In front of his blood-lit face.
……………………………………....The prose of sociologists,
Alchemists' Latin prose, the cookbook prose of chefs,
Memory's watery pages—how to map its geology, its chalky strata,
Volcanic upheavals, sediments of excrement and ash?
Someone lies in a bedroom illuminated by ice-light
As the storm cracks down. On the hearth, a small fire;
On the table, a sheaf of parchment; by the door,
Twitching in sleep, an indeterminate dog.
The man composes in his head. I wol yow telle
A litel thyng in prose, he might be thinking.
TODAY IN SLATE
Don’t Expect Adrian Peterson to Go to Prison
In much of America, beating your children is perfectly legal.
Ken Burns on Why Teddy Roosevelt Would Never Get Elected in 2014
Cops Briefly Detain Django Unchained Actress Because They Thought She Was a Prostitute
Minimalist Cocktail Posters Make Mixing Drinks a Cinch
How the Apple Watch Will Annoy Us
A glowing screen attached to someone else’s wrist is shinier than all but the blingiest of jewels.
Rainbow Parties and Sex Bracelets
Where teenage sex rumors come from—and why they’re bad for parents and kids.
You Had to Be There
What we can learn from things that used to be funny.