Even Rottweilers Sing
The grass doesn’t love me though I nursed it, fussed over it in the night like baby asparagus. Even trees […]
The grass doesn’t love me though I nursed it, fussed over it in the night like baby asparagus. Even trees […]
—Nor should you, insists the ad for British Airways. Yes, an Englishman, like his brother the American, Finn, Serbo-Croat, Tajik,
A distinct hum emerges from the line drawn, from the simple gesture of paint. Here, for example, where Matisse once
It was an adventure much could be made of: a walk On the shores of the darkest known river, Among
Not everyone knows what he shall sing at the end, Watching the pier as the ship sails away, or what
I found the blue jay on the driveway under the pink drunk Czechoslovakian- grandma-planted peonies which were under the restrained