by Gil Hoy On those windswept weekday mornings, asphalt driveway crusted with snow, my father would get up early, put on his secondhand boots and an old coat, and exit through our front door into the blue hour to get the motor running. That fifteen-year-old station wagon would stall if…
by Jonel Abellanosa Beethoven knew my life Would take this turn and slow, Seeing me leaning for hours Watching window panes turn White from yellow, then gray, Listening again and again To how he emptied the music Of its vast and endless longings. He waited for night’s sacramental Wafer to…