2:40 a.m. My poor nephew Anthony. He's asleep in a sleeping bag on my floor, using the Riverside Shakespeare as his pillow, clutching his threadbare earthworm doll tightly to his potbelly pig belly. I was reading in bed, p. 359 of Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose when Anthony began stirring in his sleep. I looked over, down on him. "Wait," he shouted. I put down my book, fell out of bed to lie upside-down beside him; was he troubled? Was he being attacked by a phalanx of carpenter ants? No, no; he seemed placid, calm. "Wait," he said again, less loudly, sadly. "I want you to stay," he said. I lay beside him, the back of my hand against the side of his neck. I wondered whom he was calling out to, who abandons my little nephew in his dreams.

the Funny Show

agriculture poem

my life in the ghost of Bush

time-lapsed (part 1)

unreconciled

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Images are taken without permission from the fine and trusting folks at Folk Arts of Poland; please purchase something from them. Background music stolen without permission from Epitonic, Basta Music, and just about everywhere else my unscrupulous hands could grab something. No rights reserved.

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