It announces itself as a rustle in the bushes, as a tug of the hem, as a flash of light in the eye, as
Mini-Cleopatras of the backyard creek, what faith shakes us from the bone of make-believe? Sometimes lions, we stretch sun-lengthened limbs, laugh fierce bells of
Living, still, among the gods and the bees at the cusp of morning. The first moments of light like a virgin’s inner thigh—brief and
So this is what I think: your apartments are tented with Oxford shirts on kitchen chairs, or there are no kitchen chairs. Women come