Prose & Poetry

Madison Square Park in an elderly May where the dogwoods bloom and the London planes thrive. […]

She was pushing with an intensity that was palpable from our first embrace at baggage claim.

Your car is sporty. Red. A Solara, I think, but you never put the hood down.

Someone found a bloodied pair of shredded jeans. This much was fact among the boys. Who

shades and silhouettes. transparent, translucent, opaque. a little girl in a haze of confusion. there’s no

Unsoldered A paroxysm, an electroshock For two eyes river and sand. A metal sculpture sheared at

I am not a saint merely, A wilted plant, acquiescent Paralyzed by inaction I am weary

May the blessings of the Allfather light your precious path Sing, sing of your glorious, gleaming

Held up in traffic I saw him walk away from the corner we were meeting on