Richard Tayson’s first book of poems, The Apprentice of Fever, won the Wick Poetry Prize. Other awards include a Pushcart Prize and Prarie Schooner‘s Bernice Slote Award. His work appears in Paris Review, Kenyon Review and the anthologies, The World in Us and American Poetry: Next Generation.
Your face our face now attached to sticks held high as a mayor’s face a president’s. (You are not dead–we walk through a sea of your faces) Finally the pushing finally cop cars. Your face in front of me goes down and is torn to shreds the way animals tear living flesh and eat, eat. […]
When he was dead I went to the river singing. O wind over the transparent surface, how can I act with my hands broken? Sand I kneel in, glimmering. I lose my body each day for an asteroid. The planets flicker; they are not in a pretty row. Nothing to say of hair turned straw, […]