The white-haired matron in the road-side hut rattles two bags, “You pickin’? Bushel’r peck?” Noa turns away, clings. I try: I love YOU, a
The white-haired matron in the road-side hut rattles two bags, “You pickin’? Bushel’r peck?” Noa turns away, clings. I try: I love YOU, a
The cat’s brown coat, but not the tongue he licks it with. Winter light, a slick of simmering gray. A petal from the
In the bowl, cobalt-blue, you collect each spilled pebble, imposing order against his going. On the table, stacked just so— Mandelstam, Hopkins, Plath,