by David Hathwell

It’s falling heavily now, as they said it would, in splashing thuds against the northern windows, brutally, as if it would break and enter. Precedence insists that it won’t (I am too awake) but brings to mind that fine, must-bearing splatter, impossible to expunge, and those widening gaps between glass and rattling frame above the desk— its shaded lamp, a book left … Continue Reading ››