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 in the moonlight—we’veplumb forgot how
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 forth from the treesto feed.
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 time of day. driven over
“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 on my chest,bobby pins in
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 shingles and leaks, tinker, turn
(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, the summer being safe ground.a
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, ferried across the bayto observe
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 sixtyin the shade. the ground
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 robe. In 129 I won’t
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 she wants and gets it,