Preposition in 6/4
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
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.”¹ the path was always inevitable, never quite chosen. the unavoidable moon reveals blood
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
my hands still smelling of garlic, I leave early, walking uncertain on my own two feet I imagine birds picking at the suet somewhere
(after 8-bitfiction) you sink your sensible feet in the dirt while we talk about the heat presuming the boundaries of the court are drawn there
after Andrew Wyeth‘s Squall the piping plovers hopped along the time I went birding, cold and wet dispositions fret, slickered yellow hiding behind dunes pock-marked by
after Giorgio de Chirico’s I Shall Be There – The Glass Dog I shall be there baring the paunch of my stomach bearing my heart
aching feet are forgotten once I sit on a red banquette. we’ve gone to Russia by way of the MTA. my mother would tell me
balmy air sneaks its way through the gaps in the cable-knit, in this finicky colony housing confused birds and the carnage of melting snow. people
(for Siv) Fall Keeping shadows at arm’s length while the streetlights still flicker is the only way I know that I understand the dark. While