This place marks a superb spot, where everyone expects me to reside, to germinate undisturbed, dispassionate, deep. ...

Sleep is innocent. It runs, hides in the dark, is easily frightened by radiators, the drop of a digital clock. I have ac...

Speedway soars without pit or champion. Glow of dashboard. Echo of centrifugal force. Cars never cross the finish line blea...

I leave the bed unmade ― toss the duvet to the floor, leave it, rumpled and quiet, ...

Natives, Slavs, dark Irish, moan for elsewhere, sigh like an accordion ― they hover with snake eyes, offer melancholy and vodk...

Torso of Venus, 1920, bronze, Aristide Maillo Columbus Museum of Art Venus whispers through limbs in the ash; charts the path of t...