Como Lake, Saint Paul

William Reichard The man on the farther shore is fishing. I can see him cast his line into the clear water. The lake is ringed with signs that warn, in three languages, not to eat the fish. The ducks are back. Coots, they’re called. Small black bodies, white heads. They only pass through in spring… More


William Reichard If there was a way to talk with you, I don’t think I’d use it. Titillating, the notion of communicating with another plane, my voice finding your voice in a vague celestial space between one world and another. But frightening. Too much so. The gift the dead give us: silence. We can claim… More

Wallace Stevens in My Garden

William Reichard There’s no idea of order here unless we can claim that an utter lack of plan is, in fact, itself a plan. Things were planted as they came, no thought to size or sprawl, no sense of what a small tree can become. Thus, the branches of the tall, wide birch reach everywhere… More

Heaven Come Down

William Reichard In the dark gazebo, a small bench. The shades pulled against the light, the heat. Nearby, a fountain. Its water endlessly cycled through and through until it begins to evaporate. By then, most of the blooms will have fallen. Summer turns sticky, scratchy. People are foul-mouthed, bad tempered. It lasts longer than anyone… More

Shift Change

William Reichard The t-shirts hang like ghosts against the coal blackened houses. How long can anything stay white in this shadow city, the mine an open maw to the underworld? I’ve seen it eat a dozen men in one day; seen it kill hundreds more: black lung; emphysema; the slow wasting death when one might… More