You've got to dig to dig it, you dig?
In-between the sun and moon,
I sit and watch
and make some room
for letting light and twilight mingle,
shaping hope
and making single glances last eternity,
a little more,
extending love beyond the doors of welcoming,
while wedding all the parted people,
even sons to violent mothers,
and searching all the others finding light
where twilight lingers,
in-between the sun and moon.
In-between the sun and moon, Pádraig Ó Tuama
The Sandbaggers, British spy television series, 1978 – 1980.
How the Pentagon Started Taking U.F.O.s Seriously, by Gideon Lewis-Kraus (NewYorker, 2021)
r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r, E. E. Cummings
it fills him with a great and irresistible longing, the bright, leaping colour, the blast of warmth to his face, the array of fascinating implements to stoke and poke and grip.
It seems extraordinary to him to be in such close proximity to a creature which is so emphatically from another element, from wind or sky or perhaps even myth.
can usually be persuaded with a few words
(Maggie O’Farrell)
The Morning Star flies from the clouds and the bird cries to the dawn.
Amaryllis, awake! Lead your snowy sheep to pasture while the cold grass glitters with white dew.
To-day I will pasture my goats in a shady valley, for later it will be very hot.
Among those distant hills lies a very great valley cut by a fair stream.
Here there are cold rills and soft pasture and the kind wind engenders many-coloured flowers.
Dear, there I shall be alone, and if you love me, there you will come alone also.
Fête Gallante, Marcantonio Flaminio, translated from Latin by Richard Aldington
Fêtes Vénitiennes, Jean-Antoine Watteau. 1718-1719
Chicle y Polvo, Tunnel Projects.
won’t you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.
won’t you celebrate with me, Lucille Clifton
How exquisitely human was the wish for permanent happiness,
after she spoke, the smile that followed made the sun look like a fool.
“Then you’re all mine.” “Oh, yes.”
(TM)
“In this place every true thing is okay.”
“slipped off into his dream of choice.”
Toni Morrison, Paradise
A broad church: secret knowledge and self-mastery at the Poetry Field School, Anahid Nersessian (e-flux)
Powerhouse Arts | 322 3rd Ave, Brooklyn
April 29–May 3, 2026
By the bivouac’s fitful flame,
?A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow;—but first I note,
?The tents of the sleeping army, the fields’ and woods’ dim outline,
?The darkness lit by spots of kindled fire—the silence,
?Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving,
?The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily watching me,)
?While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wond’rous thoughts,
?Of life and death—of home and the past and loved, and of those that are far away;
?A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground,
?By the bivouac’s fitful flame.
By the bivouac’s fitful flame, Walt Whitman