for anyone, a lullaby, lieto fine, music for baking. What puzzles me is why you look to poetry at all, if you find the unsettling so unsettling. The Christmas questions arrive in tight little wrappings (a hobby, right?) and only pave conviction’s increase. My deprivations do not make me as achy as one might think. …
In the otherwise sedate painting of seventeenth-century flowers, a hothouse number. An importation from the colonies, nurtured into bloom and the representation of bloom. Unfurling white folds and scalloped folds of folds unfolding, and ten children all taking their turns at making it impossible for their mother to concentrate on the light from within the …