The television speaks in tongues. He sits alone, black suit, tie slightly loosened: through the archway, carnival atmosphere vibrates the dining room: bits of conversation float You remember Robey, she’s the one … table bows under stuffed ham, squash casserole, fried oysters, spoonbread, inevitable gelatin mold …love the recipe, do you know who… his daughters […]
It’s summer. Our dusty orb revolves slowly on its axis, angled into sunslant for maximum absorption; its thin, dark skin blisters and cracks. All day I stand idle, waiting once again for magic to tumble into my life–the mythical poor fisher who nets a spangled, articulate carp, is granted three wishes–some jar or cache pot
I mean, a thistle among roses appears a rude thing, slow, cloddish country cousin who visits, whose awkward manners do not fit–you apologize, make excuses, feel mild embarrassment. Then, place that same thistle atop a peck of turnips. No longer simple produce, it becomes beautiful, a still life, rich purple blossom echoed in tints upon
