James Richardson

Last bells in town with bronze bronze tinge the evening. Even if I hadn’t heard the shuddering board, the splash, the laughter, I’d have known from the quaver of voices over water that this is the last house in summer, and now is the double loneliness of missing a party you don’t even want to […]

Only for years faint hush hush in the walls and in the off TV of wings as large as pages, powder of taupe and umber on glass doors, then suddenly on the window, Cecropia — last seen when? — named for the king who taught burial of the dead. It’s the mask of a god, […]