Does anyone still paint by numbers? I once made a fine pair of canvases––birch trees on a stream rippled by dabs of white. I
Even your gallop cannot drown out the earliest wars or gunpowder parades tearing past the tympanum. There is no in-one-and-out-the-other, you’ve heard every good
of the palm of my hand a watershed empties into one river that breaks into two head and heart a portage can take years
The town of your childhood summers, when you baked Portuguese sweet rolls in the kitchen with Grandma. Went bass fishing in the reservoir with