Pilgrimage
April 9, 2018After ten hours of driving, out of the old station wagon. My mother, roadworn, care poor, steps over the fallen gate.
After ten hours of driving, out of the old station wagon. My mother, roadworn, care poor, steps over the fallen gate.
Sarah your clarinet body squeaks at the valves, moans off key, and lying still and flat as a paper doll
On the third day he stopped for a deserved rest, though not intentionally. The bishop, she explained, was hunting pheasants and wouldn’t be back for hours. So he collapsed into a straw bed
Signs in the heavens. Great arcs of light at midday. Drew it. Intend to ask Joseph what it means …
There are significant differences between historical investigation of controversial issues and the polemical use of history. Jeff D. Blake’s essay is a textbook example of polemics impersonating as history. First, he employs the classic […]
of course a two-inch badger carved from liver-colored stone with arrows bound to his back, could not make the difference.
Bitter herbs and tears Mulch, water the spiritual Roots of human neuroses Surely God sees through
Snow falling into the pond leaves you weak with its metaphor of sadness, as though all that makes you could be instantly broken down,
Lying on my mother’s bed listening to tropical rain skitter across a mottled screen, I hold my daughter, sprawled in sleep,
Pluck them out one by one Melancholy, dearth, unableness Squeeze out the poisons Scratch away the sting