Fall 2019

“The same morning I found a dead little song bird
out walking my dog in the neighborhood
and the moon high in the western sky was oh so full
when on the next street over
I saw something falling slower than anything I ever had seen
and wondered first if it was a leaf” Read More

Summer 2019

“Birdie doesn’t talk anymore, but Roscoe can still hear her. After fifty years together her voice finds him, escaping through the cracks of her fiberglass box and traveling up those feet of dirt and over the soil horizon to whisper advice and recollections and perturbed admonishments into the white-tufted privacy of his cochlea.” Read More


“The restaurant faces Central Park and we choose to sit outside in the warm fall evening. Potted banana trees are placed to afford each table an illusion of privacy. Joan is laughing at something I said when the shooting starts.” Read More

Winter 2019

“I left a stone on my grandfather’s grave today.

It would have been common practice if not for
His grave being the Danube, icy river,
And the marker a pair of shoes and a plaque” Read More