“e quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle” —Dante Alighieri, 34th Canto, La Divina Commedia A tiny thing, a particle, a protein anointed in oil,
How she wants the pleasure of the comb in autumn, brimmed with clover drops, a whole season of frenzy sated by the taste of
Some mornings we take fog too seriously, like a school bus strobing its route more slowly than by rote, more the pace of a
Crow spots the slither in high weeds next to the roadway; crow knows what this creature wants and needs. Flies down, lands a hop