I refuse to be the Fisher King.
Because I saw it in a movie, I knew to lean deeply over the back of the saddle when my horse started straight down a steep hill.
Years later, I find out that the teacher who stole my art work had used my name while sleeping with the teacher who offered me a rose for my cleavage one day in high school.
I remember from 39 years ago the interior dome of a Borromini church we can’t find in Rome now.
Married exactly the man I saw in my head when I was 6, except he has no dog.
Always intended to leave Delaware.
I’m never thinking about angels, so why do I keep making them?
I should be grading.