When I go to borrow the electric hand- saw, my uncertain neighbor alludes to Hamlet’s friend Horatio —something about sparrows falling and his wife steps out as the metal screen door flashes white and it’s spring, I’ve just got my hair cut by a fleet-fingered barber smelling of lavender and everyone in Jersey is busy […]
John Parras
John Parras: Sky
The heart is a knot dark in pine. My fingertips are stained pecan. The backs of my hands itch. There is nothing worth bombing. Sawdust powders my clothes, rises aloft, pixie dust in staid suburbia. We spent the whole day cleaning the garage. From here I can smell Afghanistan. What good are the old forms? […]