Behind us, across the long expanse of lawn our guests blow ten thousand bubbles instead of throwing rice. They crowd, all dressed up like
i am reminded to please wait through the silence, to check my work pants at the door, but it’s raining tiny czarists over in
No past tense permitted —Kay Boyle, “A Poem for Samuel Beckett” Darlings, this may be the only great escape we’ll ever make: go forward