I went back to the citywe visited, tothe restaurant that
No one picked in the fields on Election Day. The trucks drove us to a picnic on the Bluff. The children sang songs like it was Sunday.
Every April we unsheathed sofa cushions from their glassy wrappers,perched tea on our laps, and became an audience for his four-decade
Gathered in the yard, shed-side, pokeweed, black walnut, pecan tree all leafed and umbrellaing. My grandmother, the relatives
I loved you, New York.
The way, at first, Tina loved Ike, loved even the wingedEffort of his anger, loved his punch-drunk backhand in flight,
Oh, obstreperous one, ornery outside of ordinaryprotocols; paramilitary probie par
excellence: Every evidenceyou yield yells.
In the stillness of a windless day,trees stand full, and proud, and straight.
He was in a poem once, alive at the beginning, dead by the middle, haunting me at the end.
Beaucoup de musique de Miley on the air—As one may imagine, there is a Rihanna button, and it iswhat you push when you enter the control room, and