In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

Richie Hofmann | 169 His studio like a Bohemian’s but astringent, a poem by Rilke framed beside his bed in the kitchen, which he read to me the night it rained hotly, in a language I used to know, and summer curled the crisp edges of a map taped to the wall. I covered his eyes with my lips, but he pushed me away (“there’s no returning from there”), the window unit sputtering black flecks onto the sofa, which he’d covered with a sheet. We sweat on it from our hair and armpits and genitals. Morning would efface us both, our unfinished selves, our need to look masculine, refined, and in control. poetry Rilke Poem Richie Hofmann ...

pdf

Share