Ode to Crazy Guy Who Blessed My Sundance

He is One, while I smile to myself and fear the little spiritual squeegee man, cheap-leather clad Galilean, his arms flailing in mad, sacred forms. He blesses pedestrians and Cadillacs alike as waves of exhaust rise up, swell, and enshroud him. And He is One, while I drive slowly past, content, as though the steel…

Dead Flies in the Carrel

A gathering of seven dessicated flies reclining on the windowsill, wings rheumy like a seer’s eyes watching the last star dying out; dark chitinous husks held together with a last inheld breath; the picture window’s frame a great lake and snow-accented firs and sun houses. I see one last fly climbing this postcard jerking up…