…the dance, the warmth, the rhythm…
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writing
I miss ignoring him and being ignored.
Thus composed, she contemplates the water.
Rocket flares, fire crackers, homing pigeons—nothing is taboo.
He had much more to say about imagination.
People say I’m brave.
Who had the nerve to cozy up to perfection, let alone ask it to dance?
Eternity must be more like radio than TV.
A man angles a pizza to his hip, a small boy in the crook of his arm.
She’s the desperado girl in all her ingenious disguises.