Poetry

After he was gone,

I pull my wool sweater on over my nightgown

after Andre Breton

The chiaroscuro of nuance,

Down the precipitous switchbacks at eighty

A brownish-yellow V-shaped blur,

We are spared nothing Yusef says

My father planted, every May,

She who is known by myth and association

Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow. –Isaiah 1:18

We grabbed hold of goggled Howard as he