Winter 2023
He would write a poem on one page, but it might take him months.
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Nothing was permanent, no friend I made, no math test I took.
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In Florence I gained a sense of how I might want to spend my life.
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I have never seen a bird, but I tell stories of creatures that walk the sky.
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Smoke and stock and toasted chili flakes. The garlic at marshmallow tan.
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“Mind you come straight home,” Mrs. Heywood always says.
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He left the Meijer in the dark of the April evening and drove to the Embassy.
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