A fly quizzical among tufted causeways,
blue sudden avenues spumed overnight from spears.
O silk, my throat closing around a sob.
That fly again, minute leaden tank, thread-hooves,
busy, busy, to whom I mean nothing.
Relief in this. Yet to me he's singing beside the dugout, the ditch,
cosmic with pathologies. A grave matter,
that perfume—father, mother, son, & daughter—
those phrases—no hands, no feet, how else depart,
eyes opened without ceasing—
why I can't disturb their bruised hymning,
why I gather them all inside, until I'll know—
TODAY IN SLATE
Forget Oculus Rift
This $25 cardboard box turns your phone into an incredibly fun virtual reality experience.
The Congressional Republican Digging Through Scientists’ Grant Proposals
The 2014 Kansas City Royals Show the Value of Building a Mediocre Baseball Team
The GOP Won’t Win Any Black Votes With Its New “Willie Horton” Ad
Whole Foods Is Desperate for Customers to Feel Warm and Fuzzy Again
I’m 25. I Have $250.03.
My doctors want me to freeze my eggs.
Smash and Grab
Will competitive Senate contests in Kansas and South Dakota lead to more late-breaking races in future elections?