ira's picos
At the top of this Midwestern ridge I let myself fall asleep imagining an ancient Celtic ring fort above a sluggish river. Turf on the fire.
"Damn," he whined, "nobody ever gets back to me." "Maybe they take time to sleep," she whispered. Then she grabbed the remote, and hit
The Og Man tries to find the door. Stumbles, fumbles. Will the key elude him? Will he break in? Will he use his rapidograph, and redesign?
Surrounded by the steep walls of tiny worldviews, I sit on scratchy carpet and try to remember the point. Outside the sun is shining.
At 2:30 a.m. the dog must go out. The world has become crystal. The air is full of the sound of falling snow. I breathe in the deep cold.
I tripped going up the stairs. Everything I was carrying spilled in a vast arc, upward and outward. "Damn," I said. Then I stood up.
