Spr/Sum 04

39. Six Sentences with and without Adjectives
(Portraits in Boxes)


Opening an envelope while riding a train, a man with crossed knees,           crying.

Photographs of dollar bills enlarged beyond recognition become           metaphors for rain.

We learned finally that manufacturing complexities was effective and           therefore to be avoided.

Slowly a person is “diminished,” says my mother; she can see that I           don’t “get it,” but I am her “best friend” anyway.

I was alone in the pool but for a man who did not swim, but rather sank           to the bottom where he walked in slow circles with his hands on           his hips while seeming to speak.

Each time he drew an eye he named it either a sun-eye or a moon-eye,           the difference being in the lashes.


Julie Carr lives in Oakland, California where she is a pursuing a Ph.D. in English Literature from UC Berkeley. Her book MEAD: An Epithalamion is forthcoming from UC Georgia Press in the Fall. Other sections from MEAD are in recent or forthcoming issues of American Letters and Commentary, 3rd Bed, The Canary, Pool, Xantippe, and LIT.