Author: Andrew Taggart

• May 21, 2012

  New York is not New York

  When people ask me whether I like living in New York City, I can only answer in the day by day, the block by block. The city writ large is not a home. My treetop dwelling is my home and so is the northern half of Central Park and so is being with Joan. So.…
• May 19, 2012

  O brave woman

  At 5:47 a.m., the rim of the sky wore a pinkish hue. It was fuchsia. At 7:46 p.m. last night, the stain glass of the bell tower was lit all in fuchsia. I awoke early, recalling the cool steps of the courtyard, awoke, curled up like a fetus, and thought of you. O brave woman,…
• May 18, 2012

  ‘Come here love…’

  Come here love: the evening itches on, like limbs inching unseen, each stretch kept under quiet wraps, his purr lending peonies, their wings rinsing the other’s dark silence.   *   *   * Now, the window thyme in morning sun. Now, the long trunk but an X-axis. Yet: a single sprig is yenning Up.…
• May 17, 2012

  Tree cutting

  Socrates’ greatness was to be able to play with children, and to consider that his time was thus well spent…. Socrates lives a human life simply and humbly. –Pierre Hadot, The Present Alone * Yesterday I bought bananas for Joan. She said she had plenty. Now I have four bananas to eat. The rain from the…
• May 16, 2012

  Fan of an altostratus, pastel and askew

  Her An hour ago, our skin, akin to clawed clay, came and combed in teeth of amethyst and bone–oh, you know, just a precipitous cappuccino. Me “Clawed clay” is so well described. I’d only add: the molten lava, like Jupiter’s eye and the top-hatted man holding up his rather sad umbrella. Her A chimney sweep’s…