Mark Terrill's charming, masterful, workaday, transcendental lyric poetry is more compelling than ever.

who knows maybe we’re all going to make it & pull through & get beyond it all but certainly not without the help of someone else who really & truly gives a shit

Fucked up that the loved ones / all have to go and even more so / the way they have to do it—

360-degree Hieronymus-Bosch-panoramas of / Altamont Speedway at night lodged in the memory / worth more than a drawer full of rotten apples.

In the blue-aired seaman’s mission/ the TV is hotwired and pulsing./ In the blaze of the marquee outside/ her fist opens slowly/ like a fleshy pink flower

Language/ is not only made of words, it requires/ further presence or one of a white-/ blooming winter-head of snow.

At ten someone calls and // talks about death, and you make a / joke about the film projectionist with cancer / who’s been with the company for 25 / years, and whoever else is in the room // laughs as well. Who goes through the rooms, / unfamiliar, and remembers the lines / from the song: Green leaves, how are / you alone? What sort of damned lonely // business letters are being written.

THE WHITE CITY   A grainy sequence in uncertain light somewhere down by the harbor looking through a dirty hotel window into a sullen overcast...