by Carol Casey The August sun has almost spun the straw to gold in the large stack behind the barn. We take turns sliding down its side, whooping in the earthy smell, the scratchy stalks tickling. Not sure why I go down backward, push off so hard. I land with a thump on almost…
By Gerald Solomon Rackety Amsterdam, a market stall, old disused books, two guys at chess. Heedless of rain and passers by, making and working their puzzle. Leaning head to head, nothing said. Rain shower, green awnings, wet canvas! Every raindrop a bright sky loosening from rims, becoming nothing. Two men,…
By Gerald Solomon Pictures of an artist’s pictures, in a book. Diego. He sits on a chair. All of a piece. A chair, curve-backed, body-shaped― already something of a puzzle. (A chair says it must be itself alone if to mimic human flesh and bone.) A bare floor, an elder…