By Gabrielle Bates
Bile-colored flutes survive along bog rock,red-veined with a fine fuzz: canebrake pitchers hooded against the good rain.
By Major Jackson
curbside on an Arp-like table. He’s aloneof course, in the arts district as it were, legs folded, swaying a foot so that his body seems to summon some deep immensity from all that surrounds: