as nothing to Harry mellow heroes Lord Burton had told
Pushkin at table (tidbits from Sara Wheeler)
eating caviar with my fingers a Russian not in the news Pushkin at table male friendship only when he had a sexually transmitted disease the flagging cause the color of corn flakes Irena broke into a poem eight time zones from Petersburg treading on toes his one hundredth-fifteenth love slush and mud in April roads(…)
Written by sitting still (murmurs from Robert MacFarlaine)
written by sitting still a reconnoiter inwards a young way archives of insincere apologies charcoal trees discontinuous moments
Missing top teeth (cavities from Helene Stapinski)
died on Ash Wednesday fresh blue and purple bruises ‘shut your trap’ to Meadow View yellow hallways soggy pot roast Vince swept skinny arms were his missing top teeth and whistle lucky 50/50 raffles part smirk to play house everyone’s wake bus to the Senior Prom daddy’s swag passing our Parish by
December does not become November
It looked something like this. Was a brooch presented to me by my parents. It had belonged to Minnie, my paternal grandmother, who had traveled all alone to New York at age ten from the Austrian-Hungarian Empire. Once here, she worked as a baker in Brooklyn until she’d saved enough money to send for her (…)
No road (clippings from Peter Matthiessen)
a spear point glitters no road long wait in great heat in rude circles milk, cheese and blood stomach lived separately
Nevertheless not (quibbles from Leo Tolstoy)
all untrue timid ingratiating look feeling we call love not even on Sunday accursed music nevertheless not feel what I don’t really feel music acts like yawning only agitating pathetic and blissful only heard his voice this oblivion nobody, Sir
Quaver of (posits from Thomas B. Costain)
only impatience usual quaver of more than a hint of mockery ‘but mother is ill’ complaining wheels near the kitchen miller a nook of pastry cheese on a large scale fat lands quads and lanes an old Crusader grim purpose all Crusaders stink orange eyes fighting geography dust and fly-specks
Unlovely clock (plumes from E.M.Forster)
into drawing room nine windows but, you won’t agree such a selling down a young man out of the unknown a train from Kings Cross at 11 an unlovely clock ‘tell no one, Helen’ poor Helen
Muted
If any loquacity remains in my life’s stockpile, it hasn’t been diminished during these months in quarantine, the quarter of a year that got tagged onto concurring years of (mostly supine) solitary living. As it’s happened, I’m almost mute. Or have been muted. I don’t know why, nor by what and don’t even mind. Truth(…)
