Barbara Seaman

Men planted mushrooms in our sky, she says, with much white boiling of thunder-and seeds, many seeds that rained down here and here and here and, after time, grew up into children. This one, she says, her sleeves rolled elbow-high for the work of holding him. Watch the wrinkled linen of her face . . . . Continue Reading »

Not that light falls unbrokenlike snow falling on snowbut that the sky flies openlike an eye. Today, an astonishmentof blue and one gray scissortailwho is sharpening his passionfor heights. When did motion becomeinvisible? Faster than my retinacan think wingblur this ribbonof plumage, this . . . . Continue Reading »