It’s possible we once danced by the light of the solstice moon, runcible drunk, hunched over streetcar tracks to flatten a penny— the only
Last night’s monocle split to pieces by the loblolly limbs, wind at the window secretive as an owl at woods edge, an ear tuned
and the cat opened a winter bird for her red on the front steps like a spill of juice on kitchen tile. She saw
1. “The Dead Christ with Angels, 1864” Edouard Manet Angels labor as angels must, mourning spoilt, spilt milk, not begging for an ounce of
