I have no complaints. The sockeye fish hurries up river, but human hearts rest in nocturnal bliss. What scavenges the weak, the herb,
Arlene taught me to identify the maple-like leaves, the umbrella of engine-red berries, hanging plump and shiny with ripeness—to collect the berries in
for Nan You placed an ad in the Boston Globe I moved in My job as a secretary your vocation as an
She writes her life down in fragments. How it does and doesn’t appear. The door most of all. A fear of simple locks.