lives in Brooklyn where he doesn’t write on the fire escape, preferring, instead, coffee shops, when he is not earning his lavish living in publishing.
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That’s why my finger is half an inch
in the dirt, planting radishes,
setting off a convulsion of root and leaf
under a sun which is dying (naturally)
so that one day, when I’m thinking, maybe,
about what happens to light
when it reaches the edge of the universe,
I can salt the tuber’s white meat
with its mineral taste of earth
and the burnt-up star that made her
and bite into a thing larger than myself.