after lines from Cesare Pavese’s “Grappa in September” Her problem, of course, is that she was never a child, and so hadn’t the opportunity
The pears I bought and put in the glass bowl are cinnamon stick red and rough. Pleasurable it is, the cutting them up and
We watched the wooden frames of farmhouses groan and crumble, heave towards the water then fall prostrate against the indifferent sky. My father readied