Simplify!

If you find all those desktop wallpaper designs too busy and distracting, you may prefer the clean unobtrusive designs found at Simple Desktops.  In the spirit of “less is more,” this cool site is curated by Tom Watson.

More Precisely by Ander Monson

What I meant was stars: lots of them.
What was in the bag: a hundred other bags,
each filled with a star. What came after the world:
silence, lots of it. Like being in a bag for a year,
a portable hole, losing the sensation of sound.
After only two nights stars appear
where there were none. So: I’m sorry. I’m here,
not the star of this poem, nor are you. Nor beauties
in bags draped down by the river in books about bodies
and necks stretching upwards to sky. What comes after beauty
is water, just water, nothing reflecting in it, not even the song
of water. Drink. Take this. It’s yours. There’s no one at work
in the world. No dogs rambling the park.
Nothing in darkness or pressure arising by depth.
What was in the works but ears, ears everywhere,
on the land like leaves, caught up in updrafts like silk,
like slick maps written on it and worn on a body.
You know it’s a beauty. Even seen from a mile,
at which point it’s only a dot, it stretches and grows.
Comes closer. She’s coming for you. She walks like a star.
Towards you. In her bag is a book. Each page
draped with stars. You’ll know her
when she arrives. You’ve seen her breathing before.

by Ander Monson

published in Salt Hill
and also from Poetry Daily

photo by ein.seltener.vogel / van rijn on flickr

Reading Birds by Meghan Brinson

On the long drive across town,
a sudden burst of black darts
against the reddened
horizon—later the blush
of taillights in the thickening traffic—

above your bed, a poster to remind you
of home, the sand dunes that have grown
dirty. Bright arrows
of gulls move
above the great fresh lake
as though they spiral
out of the black iris
of a red beach umbrella

I’m reminded myself of the river town
where I stopped between homes—
how it was late December
and miles of wrens followed
the Ocmulgee and the railroads
North against the season

What is the right time?
A long flock of songbirds migrates
north along the riverbed
of my body. In the hour
I have stood here, they
have not stopped.

by Meghan Brinson

published in the inaugural issue of Bone Bouquet