I notice.Everything. How the inkon my paperhas more thanone color of blackand feels delicate as silk. The hard plastic wheels of a stroller scraping the gravel. Like crackling embers,the stillness of a solitary pineneedle sighing in the breeze.An eternal thing, like bloodflowing for its own sake. That spring taskof bringing life again. Or the neighbor’s Calico […]
Tea House: Interviews, Commentary, Reviews, Poetry & Prose