You feel threatened in the day as well as in the dark. Women and girls, mere rag dolls, watched by predatory eyes. Murders. Violence. Assaults. Road rage. Kidnappings. Divorces.
A writer of eighteenth century should have Enough coins to buy brushes and ink To feed the complicities
honey-trickle of a hidden Himalayan Rubythroat leaf from an unbound book of song capsizes, drowned out by honking trucks
Atop the empty lifeguard stand, her heartbeat hails the ages; her skeleton sings of prehistory.
He is a raconteur, yet to be exorcised of gilded memory. The morning was spent scouring College Street for Bangladeshi poetry
He takes me through the old school-gate beside the high walled prison, where my father used to take me every morning just before the first prayer bell rang.
Sonoran volcanic light. Anazazi ruins and dust cover hollow eyes of Apache warriors.