The old guy is still selling newspapers outside at the intersection of St. Anne’s–in his stars and stripes cap. We’re probably about the same age, but I hope I don’t look as weather beaten.
I had a nightmare in which Melania Trump said: I am your mother. I woke up with my heart pounding.
Reading 400 lines of Vergil aloud every Sunday on zoom. Troy falls in flames, but heroes still continue on course to found an imperial city, which the poet finds eternal but which I, as reader, know will also not last.
The tarot deck pulls out Judgement and although the dead don’t rise in our modern world any fool will admire my squash plant covered in yellow blossoms.
Miriam's Well: Poetry, Land Art, and Beyond 