His breast was deep and white, cold and caressable; his eyes were red glass, much to be desired.
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Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvellous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house.
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The roaring alongside he takes for granted, and that every so often the world is bound to shake....
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this cartoon by Raphael for a tapestry for a Pope:
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How had I come to be here, like them, and overhear a cry of pain that could have got loud and worse but hadn't?
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Somebody arranges the rows of cans...
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Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or some northerly harbor of Labrador,...
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With crayons the child draws a rigid house and a winding pathway. Then the child puts in a man with buttons like tears
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Arthur was very small. He was all white, like a doll that hadn't been painted yet.
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