The Longfellow Bridge
The T runs down the heart of the bridge. The cars shake in the dim light left by the dregs of the day...
“at the mercy of the geography”
The T runs down the heart of the bridge. The cars shake in the dim light left by the dregs of the day...
Bagno. The name means bog. The village may have been a bog before the drainage ditches gridded it into kolkhoz...
He turns into the comforter of rain, no umbrella or hat, just the quilted sidewalk. The spume from wheels passing...
[Content warning: animal death]
From the half-finished bunker of the concrete basement That was to be the foundation of our now-abandoned Familial abode that I will neither finish nor furnish...
The tall, even pines with sand at their feet brood black between their trunks...
The hard blue sky behind her run through with a single white thread of a contrail...
Speeding down the kudzu highway where Atlanta’s orange glow chokes stars, he forced the '82 stick- shift Toyota too close to its effective frequency. I thought...
In that moment I wonder was Freud right after all, is the female nothing, nothing...
I am not a hole, but in this moment I become it. When the act is finished...
There’s nothing. Nothing behind your blue eyes, lord of lies, evil magnet, lodestone of my worst nature...