MEMORY THIEF
On my way to work, a child’s bicycle abandoned by the swings reminds me of your old one from all
Chinese Jar
Fine white veinsincised through thick blue glazetrace coiling dragons. A careless duster-strokeand the lid falls.Her eye catches it, her hand, just too slow, sees it smash on the hearth,explode six ways –at least, there should be six. She hurts with
