Arts & CulturePoetry
James Matthew Wilson
But then they come, the slow gray monoliths.
Arts & CulturePoetry
James Matthew Wilson
It’s hard to accept that we are called to praise. What shout of joy amid such poverty?
Arts & CulturePoetry
James Matthew Wilson
A boy at a front door, a shadowy guest.
Arts & CulturePoetry
James Matthew Wilson

Only the next day could
The mystery begin,
Its shocking fount of sparks
In darkness now a memory,
And the cooled cylinder
Drowsing on the charred smear
Of driveway. To approach
In the abandoned silence
And lift it up—which has,
You think, by someone been
Forbidden—and to smell
The singed gunpowder, rich
And sweet upon the nose.
The colored wrapper brittle,
Peels back and flakes away.
To strip with thumb and finger
The first and second layer
Of cardboard inlaid circles,

Poetry
James Matthew Wilson
This morning, I hauled to the streetA heavy wooden pallet, so beatThe workmen had left it behind:Its boards, rough-hewn and splinteringAgainst the asphalt. When I leanedIt on the dumpster, with some twineAnd flattened cardboard boxes, too,For the trash-man, a March gust blewAnd overturned what I had
Poetry
James Matthew Wilson
 I/Blaise Pascal“The silence of these infinite spaces frightens me:The dark dissolves to numbered points and emptiness.I’ve tried to write of it, but the imploding blank Swallows what words I speak, absorbs the light I seek.I prayed. I knelt, but the rings round the plafond shr