10 Minutes   might be all we have, the mystery of this abandoned landscape & sleep sliding into your skin the shadows, then and the broken window, rotten window case splintered you cut yourself and the floor your curled hair filled with white dust your sweater ruined on the damp concrete break this chain of myself, this twining rope of death; bring the word, the thought soaring in the mind’s dark licking at the base of the mind in the shuddering moment . . . .     ...

10 Minutes   might be all we have, the mystery of this abandoned landscape & sleep sliding into your skin the shadows, then and the broken window, rotten window case splintered you cut yourself and the floor your curled hair filled with white dust your sweater ruined on the damp concrete break this chain of myself, this twining rope of death; bring the word, the thought soaring in the mind’s dark licking at the base of the mind in the shuddering moment . . . . Eric Quinn &nd...

10 Minutes might be all we have, the mystery of this abandoned landscape & sleep sliding into your skin break this chain of myself, this twining rope of death; bring the word, the [thought] soaring in the mind’s dark licking at the root of the words in the shuddering moment   ...

1. of all of them there was only one and not the one I would have thought I am the one who knows the words she said the one who holds your eye no fear on my face sleep on my brow but passing toward the rain the lights 2. I am one she said the voice unbroken like sand cutting your skin I am one the dance you never untangled a million of them waving in the leaves of spring I am one I am one the disappearing rooms I am one streaking the edge of sight net of the world I am one the boy’s gun grin ...

Revision is a hard sell— angels think it mainly a speculative venture like the grapes left in my satchel all day, juice oozing over the creased and fragrant leather: something was intended. I who have no other option might say that beauty is a mistake, the pain of disappointment like an extra stroke dropped from the glyph. It can be that easy. But in the meantime, back at the ranch and so forth, the angels are still uncertain and the Pharaohs aren’t giving them much help— stored up like mothe...

But I digress. The real beginning of my story is much more casual than all these musings. One morning during the third year of my Guardianship, I was breakfasting on pears and nuts in the sunroom at the Residence. The sunroom is a pleasant place, with its narrow, tall windows, marble parquet floors scattered with tables and chairs, its palms in bright blue and yellow standing vases. The breakfast was made even more agreeable by the fact that I did not often get the chance to enjoy this quiet...

Story creates belief. When I was young I did not understand this. In the great house where I grew up, storytelling was the art of the poor. I heard tales of the wood-daughters from our nurses and maids, of the singing shells from the reedmen (listened to guiltily while my father was out of earshot), of the men who journeyed up Inib stream into the forest of the sibyls and did not return. Of course I also heard stories from my tutors, but these were true: of the old capital, ruined, lying in ...

Though I’ve never been there I set out anyway climbing for hours among foggy peaks wandering among dense forests no room for a path lost in remote mountains, I rejoice at the sound of a bell, strain to guess its direction a torrent’s proud song disappears behind ominous rocks and the streaming sunlight breaks coldly on bruised, blue-green pines in the half-light I stumble beside a dark lake composing myself I begin to meditate— banish the watery dragon # # #

Sarav accosted us at the pavilion’s ramp, wearing a gold silk tunic and one of the most satisfied expressions I’ve ever seen on anyone. Whatever one might think of his mood, though, it was hard to object in the face of his five personal guards, glaring at me, the one who had their master’s disapproval; they trailed a few paces behind Sarav and the ever-present Arsha. I was wondering why he wasn’t wearing his newly-claimed crown—king of the centaurs! no less—when he spoke: “I’m expecting your...