Laurie Sheck

This morning, sketching in the garden, suddenly it occurred to me: I do not think of these flowers as lovely. Their bright colors hurt my mind, for they are crimson as blood seeping from a wounded son, purple as the bruise on the forehead of the awk [...]

The ferry moves from shore towards the islands, quiet as sleepers. My last time here I didn't have a scar. Now, from the maze of tall buildings, old men rummaging through garbage, slow throb of lights, I've entered again this calm. Each night as I fa [...]