Whenever I see sheets drying on the line or smell gumbo simmering on the stove, a flood of memories comes to me. In 1953 when I traveled in the rural South with a group of students, we received the generosity of strangers—African Americans...
Not plumes. Not plumes from the teapot’s throat. But force, unseen, the space
The years of my youth, my sensual life—how clearly I see their meaning now.
Me & the Devil are rivals for God’s affection.
Dangling his legs outside the plane in wind that seems about to whip him in half at the hips, but won’t, having split
