Skip to content Skip to sidebar Skip to footer

Poetry

In the office park he spoke of the land. To the loan officer, of the land. At the temp agency, the land.
Drawn from coroner’s inquests and newspaper reports from England between the 1770 and 1920 — very much in the spirit of Charles Reznikoff, nothing invented.
Injured bone. Blynken and Nod. Visor your irises, handle with tongs. We all think the Mandate of Heaven belongs To him who gets-away-with.