The Pitch
– For Len Gasparini I could have mumbled a poem at you Easily yet the mornings bring a…
– For Len Gasparini I could have mumbled a poem at you Easily yet the mornings bring a…
I’ve never visited Grace Street, but draft an image from my mother’s stories. The…
You were right, dear professor, the great vortex came in time whirling us into the pond…
we are made of weak cloth and barely woven fabric sewed, having chosen a design because…
When they were old men they couldn’t recall if they had strode that mystery, or…
At the carrefours, signs and avenues Usher us to divergent destinations. We trace…
“Go shut the door,” he told me, and I stopped a second, wondering exactly what he…
when my mother died so did our language the one we spoke each day at the kitchen table…
“When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a…
You were blowing like a light breeze I felt you on my skin like a whirlwind. I brought my…