Sublime

Back in Brooklyn, a poet-nurse to the Union dying writes: A leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars. Jørgen never reads these words.

crudités

bloviating

custodians

The 400 Blows

I was lost in my fantasy, ignoring Dave Brubeck and coming up for air only when my father elbowed my ribs to ask, “Are you listening to this? These cats are burning the paint right off the walls!”

Perched on the roof’s TV antenna, a single pigeon lent its monotonous cries to the scene.

copacetic

Mephistopheles,”