Nick Visconti is a writer living with an artist and a cat in Brooklyn. He plays softball on Sundays.
The sand before me like water, fluid and holy under the cratered crown nearly half-awake, circling as I draw the one way I know—stick figures in a backdrop scenery, thick- headed and content, wheeling psalms of birds, wide-sloping M’s grouped in permanent murmur. I don’t bother with the sun’s face, bare […]
It is love, not grief, which inters the deceased in a hill made of clay. Sod embraces crossed arms, legs, eyes shut looking forever at nothing […]