Sparkling sequins of cities creviced in the slip of mountains I’m listening to David Byrne flying at an altitude of 37,000 feet he’s burning down the house in gray slacks
Monday of Memorial Day weekend, Driving down High Street was an easy ride, all the lights were with me, over the speed bumps installed recently, to what end I don’t
Something about my being in darkness, in deep quiet, translucent petals of plum trees on the pavement, rotating like a planet troubled by gravity shifting from one edge to the
The Begonia It started with a leaf rescued, or should I say, volunteered from a neighbor’s front yard, waxy green with white spots from beneath a pink umbrella of flowers—
My great aunt with cloudy cataract eyes came to our house and changed rectangles of paper into something else. Snip. Snip. Snip with scissors from our sewing box. She unfolded
One day at lunch-time in San Francisco’s financial district, my co-worker pulled a book from one of the stalls along the Embarcadero and handed it to me. He said, “You