The garden is not grateful to the gardener.
The bud does not cry, 'Open me!'
Darkness untangles threads of light without God's fingers,
filaments of pollen spilling from the reckless void.
The gardener is grateful to the garden.
I drove the streets, looking for the moon, the red moon.
I couldn’t find it at first.
The trees were in the way, the stoplights too bright.
I drove west and west,
found an open space,
where the boulevard...
What do others want?
See good intentions.
Hustling through an airport, I stopped to buy some water. At the shop’s refrigerator, a man was bent over, loading bottles into it. I reached past him and...