Sonnet IV: Love’s Game’s Gone

If my bare heart shall be your blank, fire onIn words the wounds that’ve wound you up, let looseYour ammo’s shot (that being, your amors gone),On target that beats, e’en till the fuse diffuse, Shoot, here’s fair mark: that hearts hurt (on hearts) hound,Look, fair game, when the hart’s in the clearing,Beastly love pounces its

Anger’s Slough

Now our boat’s journey across the slough, or swamp, had become very bumpy, and I thought that perhaps some rocks our path obstructed. But looking down taught the truth: Our boat bounced along shields, swords, bullets, wings, bursting flak, fishhooks, beartraps, all the weapons of man, and worst of all, men and women, of all kinds, warring in the water.

A Game of Change

As soon as he took it, I was in real trouble. As soon as he took it, there appeared in my hand a large and heavy bag of change – quarters, nickels, pennies, dimes, and other ancient coins – so heavy my shoulders slumped forward, and strained I was to keep my head up.

Limbo Philosophers

We moved up through the ward of the castle and into the keep. There was a fine and shady garden in its midst. Where men and women were arranged about, lounging on the green, with faces somber and voices quiet – sad and longing in soft cold light.

The Necessity of Journey

The people were everywhere slumped on the ground. I could bear it no longer. I stooped and asked one of the men – who was very plain and dull – what he’d done. He only sighed. I asked another, a woman – also unremarkable – and again I heard no word.

Darius the Great

An Essay on Forgiveness I realized one day that it was very difficult for me to remain angry at anyone. Concerned by this, I immediately examined the cause of my agreeability, and arrived at several theories: My memory is very poor, or my nature is very amenable, or conflict I disdain. Therefore a wrong I

At the Tombs of Heretics

We found a man had hauled himself, by his fingertips, to the lip of one of these flaming crowded cluttered graves. He hanged there as over a precipice and peered up at Mr. Dante and I. I thought then I knew him.

Calling on Kafka

I wandered through his one room apartment, peering under and behind stacks of books, where a few times I’d found him before – but all to no avail. I was at a loss. And I was lost. How was I ever to prevent my friend from finding him?

Falstaff stole my Nikes

Certainly, adventures await us outside our doors. If we dare depart our doors. I returned home, my feet tired and slightly cut, Nike-less but somehow happier…