No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. Since 2015.
“What kind of idiot would send a real Joan Mitchell to us?” Matthew asked.
“Maybe it’s our lucky day?” Vanessa’s heart pattered with excitement. Maybe under my direction, we’re finally being taken seriously as an auction house?
Hadrian attempts to silence me, but I continue. “You are a Greek trapped in the body of a Roman, in a time not meant for you."
Lance loved this neighborhood from the moment we drove through the gates twelve years ago. The ancient trees. The big lots. A fantastic K-8th grade school. The award-winning golf course didn’t hurt. It felt elegant but grounded. West coast country, as described by our real estate agent. If you bought a house here, you had the kind of wealth that didn’t need proving. Women wore high-fashioned brands like Chanel and Hermes but not the crap with the logos – the real stuff from the Paris runways.
The years have flowed faster than on our side, Like the city rain herding fallen leaves Towards the black iron gratings, Then downward , to fatten London’s hidden rivers.
There are others in our politics who think it’s a fairly routine matter to threaten those with whom they disagree with death. Most people would oppose that point of view. But still, there are some communities of people (hopefully small) who think it’s a fine idea that death threats are made.
“Miss Klopkin,” they say. “Why can’t we rhyme?” And “this is hard” and “what’s the point of close reading?” What is the point of diving below the surface to reveal a deeper meaning when it’s right there in front of us?