(1938-2023)
By Robert Castagna
You’re an insomniac for the living. Still walking the aisles of the atheneum gently pointing a finger to your old books. I thumb the pages of darkened streets where you had written. Your mind holding the hand of a clairvoyant. Her cards face down on the table while I look through the neon window. And what of that pale horse that comes when we least expect it? We watch as she flips the card over— a poker face masking its meaning.
