A tribute to the late poet Jay Hopler.
I was fidgeting with my beer—passing it from one hand to the other and back again, the little I’d spilled giving it just enough slide across the bar to feel satisfying—when Walt walked in.
The first time I came across the story of the Mennonites of Ak Metchet, I hardly noticed it.
About noon, almost lunch. August air is soup, does the opposite of nourish.
The brutality of it was stunning. There was no sound, really—
Prayer sounds of ocean air & shiplap. Two leagues out on this ramshackle boat
What I remember about ’97 was that people dumped a lot of shit at our farm that year.