The Archive
Stories
Words that ask to be read slowly.
The Last Lamp
The house kept one lamp burning through October, and then through November — so the house would know we were coming back.
A Letter from the Thaw
Today the ice along the fence-line let go, all at once, in a sound like a book being closed in another room.
On Silence, and Other Furnishings
My grandfather, who built boats, used to say that silence was a room you furnished, not a room you entered.
The Cartographer's Regret
He drew the coastline as it was, not as it had been promised, and for this the village never quite forgave him.
Stone, and the Hour Before Dawn
A sequence of seven short poems, written at the kitchen table, in the year I learned to sit with not-knowing.
What the Fog Keeps
A photographic essay on abandoned shipyards along the Baltic, where the fog arrives each morning like a curator.
A Small Inventory of Winters
An accounting of the winters I have known — the kind that did not pass cleanly, and the kind that did.
The Room That Holds a Year
She kept the room exactly as it had been, which is not the same thing as keeping it the same.