Judith Vollmer: For Aaron Sheon
“The body doesn’t make sense by itself,” you said, pointing the red-tip
wand at the chalky nudes of Ingres.
March 11, 2020 · Leave a comment
Judith Vollmer: House Spiders
Maya, weaver of illusions,
how is it we trust the web, the nest,
the roof over our heads, we trust the stars
our guardians who gave us our alphabet?
October 30, 2019 · 1 Comment
Ed Ochester: Poetry
I too dislike it the mystified truisms the dusty puzzle-prunes the theatrical exaggerations: “the brutal crescendo of woodworms”— yet I think of O’Hara’s delight in the endless pleasures of quotidian … Continue reading
March 4, 2015 · Leave a comment
