[prose poem]A little genesis, please. It’s the ink, Lord. It feels like you forgot to make the ink make the words. Let it not
The trails slick and soggy after three months’ snow and rain. Water fills the woods, floors all the low places with slow-flowing brown and
once the last air raid ended we gathered ourselves, looked left then entered the main road — the sun splicing heat into our skin.
In my father’s final weeks he would collapse into a chair to catch his breath each time he crossed his kitchen. What work the
