No gods will be born this December eve as we stand shod to knees in snow under hard stars within a black ring of
It isn’t so much the Proclamation as the whiff of hope, night worrying bare branches and rooftops, nibbling the contours of a tired city.
(to Paul and Miriam on the birth of their son) Imagine a swaddled newborn suspended among stars, lighting a path through the sea, as
The boys, in a dream, are beating a green snake with a stick, slipping the limp rope into the river. Then later they watch