[[bpstrwcotob]]
Self-Portrait
I don’t want to go to the neurologist, but my family insists something is wrong because I am rhyming words and predicting the weather.
When the Veil is Open
You can’t find morels without your father’s eye trawling the deadwood and bramble for you. Thrashers thrash in the canopy, busking their duplicitous song while chipmunk and squirrel weasel through foliage, striped firecrackers.
Still Standing
After over fifty years, Warren and I began corresponding—a term I use loosely, as Warren does not write. He does not speak. His IQ hovers below 20, and he does not know who I am.