by Edward Falco
Val’s marriage was dead, his career was stalled, and his hair looked like shit. As if that weren’t enough, the outer world, the other world, the world of cities beyond the city where he lived, of children who were still children, unlike his own who had grown and left him years ago, that other surrounding world that came to him daily through television and computer images, in newsprint and slick magazine type and broadcast voices, that other world was descending once again into chaos and madness, . . .
by Christine Rhein
The Magpie outsells all the other postcards
at the Musée d’Orsay: sunlit snow,
a hope-yellow sky, lone bird on a fence.
Did Monet see a magpie or create one . . . ?
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