Nobody trusts a writer, but they will generally talk themselves into cooperating if you let them.

The train pulled into the quiet riverside station. A large man climbed out, carrying a battered suitcase. He was alone, a fact observed with puzzlement by the person waiting for him on the platform.

The Parkers, father and son, came over to introduce themselves when we moved in, five years ago. Dean, the father, was slow to speak, awkward when he did. But Rick was talkative, his eyes roving

Joseph Nagel slumped forward, head in hands. “My God,” he groaned. Elise snapped off the car radio. “Calm down, Joseph.” “That’s four straight days since we got here.” “Joseph, please.” “What do you think 

 

The significance of these footprints remained in chrysalis within me until the recent death of my great-uncle reminded me of the occasion.

Celan's,
meeting with Heidegger:
by John Felstiner's account

Not the abrupt way, frozen
In the one glance of a painter’s frame,
Christ in the doorway pointing, Matthew’s face

Spirit and form; to every soul its shell;
Sounds their instruments—flute, double bass,
Trumpet, each instrument its plush-lined case,

A valedictory hand swims up
Through metal as I grasp it, then the glare
Of summer spills like lacquer on the floor.

So you permit him to walk you home,
Assenting as he hovers at the door,
As if assent were all you had to lock

 Dolphins at every corner, bees
 The size of fists, and pinecones
 Bigger than the Pope’s crown—

A day painted like a child’s room
In bright colours; red pillar box
Where Loomis mailed your pristine letters

That night you giggled quietly in your sleep—
Lovely transparent dreamer, I could see
The singed-beige kittens tumbling there again…