HeyJaredBishop of the East Wind
Words like palms pressed together, tethering time to halt times harrowing.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 7
- Latest publication
- Sep 22, 2026
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 7, 2026
Latest issues
La Voûte Nocturne (opens the original)
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La Voûte Nocturne"Je t'adore à l'égal de la voûte nocturne,O vase de tristesse, ô grande taciturne..." — Baudelaire, XXV. Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedFeet in the shallows, tight-lipped, horizon-turned, you gaze across wine-dark meridians, as on nostalgia's urn, where lion skins embrace a girl you loved of old...and without end.
Ekphrasis at Dusk from the Porch of a Former Silversmith (opens the original)
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Of course, the clouds at dusk are purple stained.It must be from the heat, like firescale on sterling, solder stubborn at the seam, the firmament torch red where night resists the scheming flame. The paler clouds are conduits of fire. They boil like flux and dissipate, or scar the evening sky with faint excoriations— reminders of the brazing sun’s misplaced brutality. All this undone beneath a gibbous moon, which rises like a battered copper plate between the southeast ridges of the mountain— re
A Hollow Immortality (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedThe incantation was a sliding bolt. First touch, the steel was cold. You didn't trust the mechanism worked until divinity had passed as heat from your own fingertips. The rite repeated—bolt up, the friction moving east to west, the hallowed cut across your chest— sign of the lock made three times thrice. There was a pattern to the flickering lights, the on and off and on and off before they'd douse, whereby the dark would ca
The Light Dripped In (opens the original)
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Earlier this summer, as I was preparing for the possible chaos a newborn might introduce to our family, I scheduled a different poem to go out today. Between then and now, I came across an older poem, written years before Substack had transformed me into a decidedly more formal poet. Originally, the poem’s seven movements operated with an absolute disregard for meter, and I quite liked it. But then came a period of metrical fundamentalism, during which time I was inspired to revise the poem into
The Incorruptible — Act V (opens the original)
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<img alt="" class="sizing-normal" height="1456" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!OutZ!,w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Ffbd166df-a72d-4294-bbdf-8b665ce3325e_2100x2100.
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