by Jean Garrigue
At breakfast they are sober, subdued.
It is early. They have not much to say
Or with declamations fit only for whisper
Keep under pressure the steam of …
Café Trieste: San Francisco
by Joseph Brodsky
To this corner of Grant and Vallejo
I’ve returned like an echo
to the lips that preferred
then a kiss to a word.
Nothing has changed here. Neither
One night, driving along Blue River Road, I’m startled and disoriented by the shock of headlights coming up over a hill. When you’re night blind like me, the …
Master of None
Turn the bottle not the cork.
I want a draft on my desk by morning.
Knuckles to the blade. A quick punch
to its bottom flaps opens an empty box.