The latest batch of iPhone photos and epigrams from
my Instagram feed (by way of Flickr). Here in the northeast, late autumn has to be the most under-appreciated time of year, but as I hope at least a few of these snapshots suggest, it does have a kind of sombre beauty.
A hopeful outlook is a kind of blindness.
The higher you get, the fewer your options. The best ladders are just habitat for birds.
A flag is like any other garment, idealizing what it conceals.
Long ago, there were too many humans on the earth, so half of them elected to become trees. So say the Batek people, who live in the forest.
The older I get, the more strongly I cling to my faith in flexible deadlines.
Headlines are like earworms, colonizing the mind until we can’t accommodate anything more complex.
I envy the railroad sleepers, never stirring in their bed of stones.
The tongue is a weapon whose wounds take root.
mountaintop pond— the blind dog lapping at her reflection
Because the dead never stop being dead, they are the most stable presences in our lives.
Christmas tree ornaments are a colorful reminder that for centuries, public hangings were festive occasions.
Since I never had kids, I saved all my best lies for poems.
When leaves die—I tell my imaginary children—they are reborn as fish.