no pilgrimage quite as long asthe four country miles,side-to-side in disconnected brooklyn,walking east togo west yet again we accidentally tangoboth prepared to leadthe Passion play
what a moment it is to haveshelved the bottle just as I’velearned a new game of cards.hands keep busy as birdsoutside run their errandsback and
Scheherazade, night so longwith the story I tell myselfto help winter pass, could be five ormidnight save for the moonlow over the Navy Yardsinging its
“a labyrinth is not a maze,in which confusion is the aim.”¹the path was always inevitable,never quite chosen. the unavoidable moon revealsblood in my mouth,the Pleiades
in spring we come across a peeling house and fill it with pots and pans. sometimes I make noise with a wooden spoon. you fix
(after 8-bitfiction) you sink your sensible feet in the dirtwhile we talk about the heatpresuming the boundaries of the courtare drawn there like sowed beds,
after Andrew Wyeth‘s Squall the piping plovers hoppedalong the time I wentbirding, cold and wet dispositions fret,slickered yellow hiding behinddunes pock-marked by rain, canvas tote bagsdampened,
balmy air sneaks its way throughthe gaps in the cable-knit,in this finicky colony housingconfused birds and the carnageof melting snow. people sharing happinesses,incredulous – it’s
I’m choosing to include this picture from Opening Convocation because it’s generally how I feel — looking back while begrudgingly moving forward, in a polyester
Julie is quite possibly one of the most ambitious people I know. If you know her, this is easy to agree with. She knows what