Here, in Congo Town, I’m picking up debris
from twenty years ago. Some remnants of bombs
and missile splinters, old pieces of shells from
the unknown past.
I had not imagined drowning
was the way to reach the shore.
The fist that held your heart releases, the hot knife of your shame turns to water, the kernels of blackened corn by which you counted your imagined crimes, are carried … Continue reading
People admire my dedication to running. “What discipline you must have!” they say, and they’re wrong. I run because I enjoy it.
I used to think
Things were so clear
I was so near to nowhere
Why were you born when the snow was falling?
He was a kind and gentle old fellow with a smudged face and scruffy beard. On his best days he appeared as tarnished and weather-beaten as his tin pie pan still does even now.