They are, my love, a cross between Einstein’s and wheat fields. Twin mustaches. Strands of sugar right before the cotton candy is spun. Astroturf welcome mats. The cellophane grass of Easter baskets. Caterpillar chia pets. Brambles and squiggles. Seaweed strewn on shore. Spiky cloud tufts that lift up when I show you my slip or…
morning dropped a gentler rain after wine and gin encasing the unseen unmentionable as clouds deftly encase wasps-in-a-shroud and stay aloft without a string unmentionable even after headstrong long-gone spins of wind (go go little gallop of smoke lithe cantering steam come come wild unthreadings anything not to envision his fingers pressed against…
Maybe nothing is meant to be seen so, but when I saw your mouth, your mouth alone, neither in sleep nor silenced by thought, fear, astonishment at our selves, for we were alone, at last, in bed, not far from sleep, I thought I saw the consequence of things, the having to prevail over the…
Coppélia What does it mean? What can it mean? A man so lonely he goes mad and builds a girl furnished with everything, and yes, I mean everything. Just look: right down to the curl of our disputed provinces, she’s my twin, Alsace to my Lorraine, no blood but oil for beaus who blanch, or…
Vito was lethargic, curled up in his fleece bed with sad eyes. He wasn’t eating. His distended abdomen was sore to the touch. Six times he’d eaten a sock. Five times it had come out the other side, worse for the wear, composted. But not this time. It was the sixth sock that did not…
Crack in the silence, blades of green a warbler leaps through. The same room, roses on the wallpaper, a deep old tub. And I’ve opened the blinds. Stripes of light corrugate the bedclothes.
What I also didn’t expect was the premonition. Through the windshield, I half-saw two angels, two somber old gentlemen telling me my life was due. But when I thought to them I still have a five-year-old son to raise, and asked to be given the time to raise him, they both stepped back from me…
Charlie Teitlebaum, a forty-two-year-old surgeon born and raised in the same Boston neighborhood in which Howard had grown up, had not been one of Howard’s residents, but while Charlie was doing his internship at The George Washington School of Medicine, where Howard was on the faculty, he and Howard became friends. At the time, Charlie…
Through blue glass, a table painted blue, roses vermilion, Amber tumblers, candlesticks, a mirror darkening until all Grays in oncoming light. Goats bleat, radioblare, a gunshot. Past the celosia, a tree where yellow birds feed; heat and wind From the mountains. Close your eyes and retinas scald The window crimson, mullions bright of orangeskin Lit…
No products in the cart.