Walking through the green dunes on our way to Abbott’s Lagoon, I ask if she remembers the weasel we saw years ago here, running
What is on your clothesline? My red pajamas, my mother’s blue shawl, jittering with wind, wild as jazz, clean as a storm. Where did
Even now, walking this city’s cobbled streets, I am rowing to the pebbled shore. Twenty-five years later and I am plunging the oar into