Winter 2019
He drew on time, and space, he drew on his powers, and their sleep.
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Joanie’s face was something she’d borrowed from Miró, from Picasso.
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He began singing, the words to a song that played from hidden speakers.
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I returned to Vietnam with a tape recorder to collect ca dao.
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I like to think of love as something that one should keep feeding, like a fire.
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“No, no,” we say. “We’re fine! Really! We love things just the way they are!”
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I’d have guessed the winter this way, every bitter plum already singing.
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