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
I’m standing knee deep in this deafening river. Down in the canyon, my voice echoes back to me. Flooded with pleasure and pain,
Let’s sit on the porch in the late afternoon sun— that untarnishable golden glow—and spit sunflower hulls into an old flower pot. The
the urge to be this body. And yet, I’m still an echo in a railroad culvert on the prairie south of town— a