twines and stalks bending,
regardless of surface heat or texture.
E. J. Bellocq
we climbed up the hills of üsküdar, searching for the elusive tomb of a sufi saint. we followed signs on narrow cobblestone streets, left, right, left, until we reached an opening where women secured scarves around their necks. i gathered my hair, took my shawl and wrapped it over my head.
Candace Plummer Gaudiani
in the black and white of winter days and nights, skies are cut into feeble slices. everything succeeds itself in an opaque list without grounds: brittle nails, coils, distant lullabies hummed underwater, salt crystals in the hollow pools of our eyes. the only snow i ever love is the first snow, as it shushes our shivers under blankets of white.