Winter 2000 • Vol. XXII No. 1 |

January 31, 1998

The week I turn fifty, the President's busyearnestly deflecting the taint of another sex encounterin an alcove off the Oval Office: "earnestly," we'd write itif we didn't believe him; if we do, we'd caret-inalleged in front of sex.   /   It's 1500in the book of Chinese watercolors: scholar-artist T'ang Yinis asleep inside his mountain cottage, dreaming that a self of him,that looks like him, is floating in the air abovethe highest peaks, that looks like air we'd haveif lakes of milk gave off a vapor.   /   And in world news:all of the usual saucers swoop their usual aerial maneuversoverhead, as if the world could press the skythe way we do our eyes, until it calls forth patterns;over Buenos Aires; Suffolk; Wayne, New Jersey.   /   My aunt is doing better: she calls from San Diego, and kibbitzesweather and health: she's eighty-six, however,dwindling kidneys, silt-filled heart: this, sadly, earns

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Albert Goldbarth has been publishing collections of poetry for over four decades, two of which two have received the National Book Critics Circle Award. His latest, Selfish, was published by Graywolf Press in May 2015. He tests his patience by living in Wichita, Kansas.

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By Albert Goldbarth

The week I turn fifty, the President's busyearnestly deflecting the taint of another sex encounterin an alcove off the Oval Office: "earnestly," we'd write itif we didn't believe him; if […]

Wrist Beep

By Albert Goldbarth

The week I turn fifty, the President's busyearnestly deflecting the taint of another sex encounterin an alcove off the Oval Office: "earnestly," we'd write itif we didn't believe him; if […]

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