On Lincoln Street I sat... book open, heart open, summer sun leaning through the window, time thick as molasses in a jar.
To Dad This morning I woke up with your name sitting in my throat, like something I meant to say yesterday but forgot to get out.
A Vigil for My Father We keep watch so love has company in the dark. West on I-88 I. Westbound West on I-88, the hills lean close, fog stitched along their backs like something unfinished.
Ozone blues and the hands that tried. That old Zenith sat like a dark-faced preacher, its back peeled open - a small cathedral of wire and light.
A remembrance at Eldridge Park in Elmira, NY At the edge of the hills, where the air holds the scent of mown grass and river wind, a diamond-shaped field gathers the last of the sun. Dad laces his cleats,
I never trusted bedtime when my mother smiled. That was the tell - the softening of her voice, the way she sounded already halfway out of the room.
Germany in August smelled like wet stone and cigarettes, the kind of damp that slips down your collar and stays. Even the light looked tired.