Arts & Culture Poetry
Michael CadnumMay 03, 2016
The rain in the woods where the fire eruptedmonths ago is abundance too soon, or too late,the blaze causing harm long after.The promise is fulfilled,but not mercifully, the watercoursesdeepening underfoot, charcoal and slurry and soil.The water has no color. It is the empty placebefore the first wor
Michael CadnumFebruary 25, 2015
For him the truth is a flavor,a pulse made of nutriment,a living mountain of breath.Even pinched betweenthe fingers and released, he springsto perfect absence, beyond punishment,a celebrant of undetectable freedom.Cinder-speck, a vibrant fiend of punctuation,no bigger than a typesetter’ss
Michael CadnumApril 01, 2014
You can’t say hand without picturing either a rightor a left. You can’t think moon withoutseeing it in one of its phases.When the arrowheads riseto the surface after the winter rainsyou can’t say again. This is a first discovery for these individual flints.The arrowheads have
Michael CadnumFebruary 04, 2014
This ruse, enduring for days,will eventually cease, but noweven the birds mistake him for a log,or a stone the fleeting droughthas lifted above the current.Because there is a current, even in this cocoa-dark side-pool, and the solution to hidingso plainly under the sun is to glide asthe magnoli
Michael CadnumMarch 05, 2012

They blind the lambs