Sparrow
By Poetry Issue 97
No one knows anymore. Or any less, for who can ever be sure about once. Or upon a time, as if time were a chair. For there was a time when time was more or less sparrow. Sparrow yes and sparrow no. Sparrow the answer answering all the questions. So. The people would put the…
Read MoreOn Saturday Night My Brother and I Go to the Auction
By Poetry Issue 70
We frequent the one where there will be the auctioneer who is predisposed toward hats, who is wearing a red fez tonight while I am not bidding on the stuffed mink cemented to a wooden board, or the colorful antique lard can. I never buy anything except nachos in the back which is when the…
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