“Snow falls in the Moosewood Sandhills, on ghost burrows, deer woods, in the bone-home, last snow. What does it mean to become nothing? You've dug a cave in the earth, room of knowing, room of tears. It means to place… — Tim Lilburn Copy Share Image
“Dry snow coming down in the hills. Magpies hair-triggered and thuggish in worn trees. A wall has started to fall in you, it will… — Tim Lilburn Copy Share Image
“At best the chaotic river, alive in the senses briefly, is discountable, has no standing in definition; before the severity of Cartesian doubt, it… — Tim Lilburn Copy Share Image
“All knowing darkens as it builds. The grass is a mirror that clouds as the bright look goes in. You stay in the night,… — Tim Lilburn Copy Share Image
“Forget, too, the lamb-y, metaphor-male, the groinless, bourgeois Jesus, with his Easter-egg, candy-store-window eyes ogling the cruciform crosspiece of his eyebrows. If you meet… — Tim Lilburn Copy Share Image
“You were chased here by darkness. Listen to the curve of the hills, the guttering voice. The way to anywhere leads through humiliation. There… — Tim Lilburn Copy Share Image
“We were dreamed around. I got to know the intimate fold Of feathers in the wing And recognize and nod to the ripple in… — Tim Lilburn Copy Share Image
“Snow falls in the Moosewood Sandhills, on ghost burrows, deer woods, in the bone-home, last snow. What does it mean to become nothing? You've… — Tim Lilburn Copy Share Image
“The names expose the namer more than they limn what's caught the eye.” — Tim Lilburn Copy Share Image
