Poetry

Brake squeals fly like ingots through this city’s enzyme weave, revolving door catching a sun slant. The white-haired man in a dark suit turns from tending bloodshot treaties in a mirror and

The October Italian sun bursts like custard from our pastry. Earringed Carlo from Bari engages us with all the colors of Apulia to the distant South. We practice our Italian and English, Carlo

Never up first, he was always downstairs first, his four little boys aligned like ascending angels up the polished staircase, already dressed, eager to see the tree, their piles of presents, when he

Do you orient yourself so as to see what’s coming, or what has just gone by? Do your cows angle forward in backward pastures; is there spinback on your trees? The east-streaking

watch out for the wack kings, clanking in their armor, riding their dope horsies over the hill. ‘Wack Kings’ has been stuck in my head for six years. I first read it in