Letter to Gabriel Written in the Margins of Murder Ballads
(Continued from Page 12)
Always one of everything here…one bee in the clover, one dove on the power line, one mockingbird diving into the jessamine to guard its one chick that will be dead by Sunday. I can see the layers of need where I couldn’t before: first a sea, an orchard, a corral, a parking lot. There is nothing left of the sea here but its sound, street cleaner flushing the day out, brushes like wings under their machinery, star’s blood through the pipes under the street, watershed of the river and farther out, the bay.
(Continue to Page 14)