VQR Online

The ghost of the nineteenth century
still stalks the eaves 
of the hurricane house, its clapboard sheaves

It seemed that every moment winter would touch its own back. The year’s last snow melted in the daytime, budded again overnight from sidewalks and car hoods, consuming into March and then into April days the deep patience of the most...

When I hear that boy sing, I said, every other
Boy becomes a disappointment. Tiny wince

You flared across Boston
like a meteor, blond mane and lowered brow
in every coffeehouse off the Charles.

So much of what forms us is accidental, ephemeral-​seeming. When I was young I knew I wanted to be an artist. Sometimes I wanted to be a writer, too, and make books; sometimes I wanted to be a singer. 

The town, my dear, is closing down: dead-
Bolts slipping into their sleeves, cicadas insisting

These arms, after all,
are open for no one
else. Posture of air

love the summer issues of commercial magazines with their exotic vacation escapes. Notwithstanding the crass product placement of beachwear, they are welcoming at a time of the year when we need to recharge. Certainly, the VQR staff wants...

Come work with me awhile, Hayden,
I can use your company in the shed 
among tools your hands have never lost