Leaving Rhode Island White coral, lightless chandeliers, ship’s rigging etched in scrimshaw: last night’s wet snow weighs on the trees, keys of an old
to fix me with that “Grow up” look after I said “I wish I’d grown up in the forties,” I wish this minute I’d
She started by dropping the i and stretching the hiss which she would halt with a punch of tongue to teeth for a hard
The stakes grunted beneath his old mallet, slowly marking off another spring garden. But it’s winter now and there’s his oldest tossing each soil-browned