Love Poem to My Wife, with Pigeons
for K In those days I visited a local park, hoping something would happen. Life perhaps, or a check in […]
for K In those days I visited a local park, hoping something would happen. Life perhaps, or a check in […]
all roads lead here so it’s no surprise under a hot sun the wad of gum on the cobblestone rebecomes
First thing they do: they rust the bright out of you. Your uniform almost a tourist’s, color-corrected to
You sit alone as a painted asteroid, folded. Your name sounds like one, both floating in from the unknown.
All writers are exiles wherever they live and their work is a lifelong journey towards the lost land.—Janet Frame Just
The real truth is that some of us don’t have facial recognition, unable to recall the goblet of a face.