Although detective stories frequently revolve around a missing person (a crime
that allows a little bit of chaos to pervade our brains with destabilizing
questions) and murders, most end with tidy conclusions that
Tyburn Convent is minutes away from one of the busiest street corners in London.
An unobtrusive brown building overlooking Hyde Park, the monastery commemorates
the city’s historic gallows. Petty criminals, failed revolutionaries,
The Swiffer glides, exactly as advertised,
Smoothly around the floor. I am in awe,
Or an infomercial. Beneath the bureau, surprised,
The dust bunnies have been busy,
And run like Auden’s years
My home is a mansion of many Makers. According to the local census there are
only four of us, but if we were numbered according to our creative titles we’d
rival the
In my iPhone, hidden among the pre-packaged, processed verbiage of my text
threads and emails, probably buried somewhere beneath the emoji, I keep an
arsenal of verbs I stumble upon. They’re relics
