My mother hanging sheets on a line in ’47. The wind believes it won the war, just like the rest of America, and swirls her black hair in a manner the photo likes to recall. Her simple skirt and blouse are proud of her youth. The train in the background leans no direction in particular, […]
Read Morefor & from James Galvin People were nice. I asked the priest to wear my mother’s wedding dress during the sermon about the difference between turning the other cheek and looking the other way. The cowboy wore it gelding bulls. The surgeon got it bloody but the patient lived. The skydiver jumped into the […]
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[Untitled]; Every machine has its parts; A hermit’s poem; & Small measures, big shadows
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