And what did they write with their iron styli,what complaints carve into his scholar skinby order of the Emperor; by assignmentand timely, stab with their

When, at 1:00 am, our neighbor risesfor his nightly ritual, plinks a bit, then— perhaps inspired—passionately pounds out“When I Survey the Wondrous Cross,” my husband

3:00 am Christmas,and your newly divorcedneighbor’s trying to screwtogether the last wall of a doll housefor the four-year-old she’s finallycoaxed into sleep,when your stereo blaresElvis

after the painting “Jonah” by James Patrick Reid Ready to swallow the fallen, the sea swells. “The waters want me,” Jonah cries, running, running, always running away.